Chess
by Annchen
Summary: A meeting. Simple as that, complicated as that. The first move in this little game of chess. WARNING! Blood and nasty stuff. Small OotP spoilers. FINISHED! I finished it!
1. In for a penny, in for a knut

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: This is for all the betas out there. All of you who do a great job without more than a thank you as reward. You rock, don't forget that. 

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1. d4 Nf6: In for a penny, in for a Knut?

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d4

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White pawn

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"Big city - big loneliness" - Latin saying

A never-ending stream of feet hurried past him. He looked at them with uninterested eyes, too tired to bother raising his gaze and look at the people above. Occasionally someone threw a coin or two in the paper coffee-cup standing in front of him. He didn't actively beg for money; that was below him. He just couldn't bear to do it, even after months on the streets. He preferred hunger to humiliation. Pride could make a person go through the strangest ordeals. He could eat from rubbish-bins, but he refused to beg for a living, or ask anyone for help. Not that anyone would want to help him. He had no one. The homeless on the streets sometimes tried to speak to him, but he was far above them; he refused to talk to such human garbage, even if he happened to live like one of them. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't simply lay down and die. It would be so easy. To sleep, to wake no more. But he was too proud and too stubborn for that. Maybe he could try to find a drug-dealer and take an overdose. Oh wait - he had no money. The clothes on his body and the filthy blankets were everything he owned in this world, besides the small pile of change in the paper cup.   
  
The endless flow of feet was almost soothing, like counting sheep before falling asleep. His thoughts rushed past inside his head, mirroring the hurrying feet outside. He wanted so badly to sleep right now, but he couldn't. He had to watch his cup, make sure no one stole his dinner-to-be. Trainers and boots hurried past, a small pathetic dog sniffed his blankets but was soon tugged away by its owner, young feet skipped along the pavement, avoiding the cracks, and old feet in leather shoes slowly made their way through the crowd. A pair of pink trainers suddenly brushed past the paper cup and scattered the coins over the sidewalk. That pulled him out of his apathy.   
  
"Stupid fucking Muggles!" He struggled to get out of his dirty blankets and gather his scarce funds, but a pair of black boots beat him to it.   
  
"Leave it, it's mine!" he snarled with a faint trace of panic. That was his only money, and without it he was doomed to yet another day and night without food. However, he didn't have to worry. All the boots owner did was scoop up the change in his big hand and put it back in the cup before giving it to him again. He felt a bit stupid when he snatched it back from the guy with the boots. To prevent further mishaps he emptied the cup and tucked away the money in one of his pockets, only leaving two silvery coins in it.   
  
"You're welcome," said a deep voice ironically. What did he expect? A thank you? Well he wasn't going to get one from him.   
  
The boots didn't disappear. They seemed to glare at him, those shoes. Black and newly polished, obviously much used, but still in fine condition. The trousers fitted in the bad-boy image suggested by the footwear. Black and unnaturally shiny, it didn't look quite right, probably something plas-tick.   
  
He looked up at the man towering over him and his grey eyes met gentle brown ones. The guy with the boots seemed to be very tall, and that wasn't only due to his current frog-perspective, most people hurrying past were at least a head shorter than this guy was. His red hair was neatly collected in a ponytail, but a few long coppery strands had escaped and seemed to live a life of their own, flying in the soft breeze. The stranger was looking straight into his eyes, with an interested expression that scared the shit out of him. It had been a long time since someone looked at him like that, not with disgust or even pity, but as if he was trying to see the real person inside him. Like one human being looking at another. Had anyone ever looked at him like that? He couldn't remember. He wanted to run away, or punch the man in the face, or do anything but meeting that piercing gaze. He was used to indifference and disgust, he could handle pity even though it pissed him of, but he had no defence for this gentle curiosity.   
  
Everyone wants to be someone, and this person looked at him like his existence actually mattered. As frightening as it was, something deep down inside him wanted that attention. He was torn between the aching need to be acknowledged and the basic survival-instinct that told him to keep his head down and to stay unnoticed. He had seen enough of the Muggle please-men to last a lifetime, thank you very much.   
  
"What are you looking at?" he snapped angrily, but he couldn't break eye contact. _Go away. Go away. Go away._ He wished that this person would just disappear and leave him alone again, but a small part of him almost wanted him to stay. The other man cocked his head and frowned. The next thing he knew the man moved towards him, his right hand balled to a fist. He flinched and closed his eyes, trying to hide from a blow that didn't come. Instead he heard the soft rustle of paper and the sound of coins clattering together. Only at the sound of retreating feet was he finally able to look up again. The man with the boots slowly made his way through the crowd, his copper-red head sticking out like a beacon above the people.   
  
When the man no longer was in sight he finally lowered his gaze to the cup. A twenty pound note was stuffed down in it. Money. He carefully removed it and smoothed the wrinkles as he stared in disbelief on the piece of paper. This meant no worries for a week if he was careful with his resources. He looked after the stranger again, but the man was no longer visible. Why? Conflicting emotions oscillated inside him, from anger to gratitude to more anger because he felt gratitude. He tucked away his newfound fortune and looked down in his cup again. The two coins he had left in it now had been joined by a small piece of bronze. His heart almost skipped a beat as he picked up the shiny object. He hadn't seen one of these in a very long time.   
  
It was a bronze Knut.   
  


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	2. Nf6

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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N f6

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Black Knight

** He had walked this way so many times on his way home that his feet now walked by their own will, giving him the freedom to think about other things. The air smelled vaguely of spring, but the nights were still freezing cold. He walked fast with big strides and enjoyed the feeling of the wind in his hair and the chilly air through his nostrils. The evenings were getting gradually lighter; only a month ago he had to walk home in the dark.   
  
He barely noticed the few beggars along the streets anymore now. It was so different compared to when he first came here; the homeless people had surprised him and made him feel bad about his new-found wealth. He had a job and a home and a caring family. He had been poor most of his life, but he had never had to live on the streets. He had given much of his first salary to the homeless he met on the street, trying to calm his own aching conscience by sharing his money with those less fortunate. Two days before his second pay-day he had given his last household-money to a homeless kid on this very street. The next day he had met the youngster again, high as a kite, and that had finally turned him from charity. He still gave money to beggars sometimes, but he had almost stopped noticing them. They had become a part of the scenery and that scared him sometimes. He didn't like the way he had turned cold.   
  
Normally he wouldn't have seen the young man under the pile of filthy blankets as he hurried home to his empty flat. He wouldn't have noticed him at all if someone hadn't kicked the paper cup in front of the man and scattered coins all over the pavement. He slowed down when the cup spun to a halt in front of him, but it was the hoarse voice that made him turn around instead of sidestepping the obstacle.   
  
"Stupid fucking Muggles!"   
  
He froze in mid-stride. Muggles? Now that was a word he didn't hear everyday. He quickly bent down to gather the lost change and the paper cup before the people on the street kicked it around more.   
  
"Leave it, it's mine!" the same voice snarled desperately. He picked up the last coin and put everything back in the cup. The voice owner literally tore it from his hands as he offered it to him. The man with the blankets immediately started to put the money away in his pockets, only leaving a couple of coins in the cup before placing it in front of him again. The man didn't even look up to see who had rescued his money, and that annoyed him slightly. It would have been nice to receive a simple "Thank you", but the guy didn't even seem to acknowledge his existence.   
  
"You're welcome," he said sarcastically, trying to get a reaction from the man. Maybe he was deaf? He put his right hand in his pocket and searched for the little coin he always kept there. The feel of cold metal usually made him calm. His oldest brother had taught him to control his temper by holding a Knut in his hand and slowly count to ten. It had become a habit for him to do so, not only when he was angry, but also when he was nervous or scared. It had become like a kind of amulet for him, and he never felt like he was loosing control if he held it. And if he did lose control anyway? "Well", his brother had told him, "you hit much harder if you're clutching a pile of change in your hand anyway."   
  
Breathing in slowly he looked down at the man in front of him. It was something odd about this guy; he had seen homeless people before, but no one like this man. It was something stubborn and proud about him. The man sat very straight up under his filthy blankets, staring angrily at the boots in front of him as if they where the cause of everything bad. Suddenly the man raised his gaze and looked straight into his eyes. It was something familiar about those eyes, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. They weren't remarkable in any way. Plain grey eyes glaring from under the filthy, mouse-brown fringe. Sharp features, the face would probably be considered pointy under any circumstances, but an uncertain time on the streets had hollowed the cheeks and transformed pointy to almost unhealthy. _How did you end up here? _He tried to figure out the person beneath him. Could he be a wizard? He could see different emotions flicker past in those grey eyes, until they settled in the expression of a rabbit trapped in the headlights. It took a few moments, but suddenly the man seemed to snap out of his rabbit-mode.   
  
"What are you looking at?" he snarled. Every fibre of the small body screamed at him to get lost. The man's body language was clearly defensive, shoulders hunched and arms crossed, but those grey eyes now held him captive. He shook his head to clear the thoughts. He couldn't stand here all day looking at a person who reminded him of someone; he had to do something or walk away. This was stupid! He didn't even know who this man eventually reminded him of. He made a decision and took a step towards the man, pulling his hand from his pocket. The reaction was stranger than anything that had happened so far. The man winced away from his outstretched hand and shut his eyes, as if he was expecting a blow to come. He stopped his movement but the man didn't open his eyes, so he shrugged and stuffed the money he had held in his hand into the cup.   
  
With a last puzzled glance at the shivering person under the tattered grey blankets he turned away to leave. As he made his way through the crowd he could feel those grey eyes piercing his back. He resisted the urge to turn around and take a last look at him. Thoughts swirled in his head. Why had he done that? It was insane to give so much money to a homeless man on the street. Not that it was so much money to him, he would manage without that, but it had to be quite a lot for someone whose income consisted of other people's change. Anything is much more than nothing. That guy would probably buy booze with every penny anyway.   
  
He put his hands in his pockets, but he no longer had the little piece of bronze to calm him. That was the most insane part. He had no proof whatsoever that the man was a wizard. He could have hallucinated with his ears or something. The man might have cursed or said something that sounded like "Muggles". It was probably an ordinary man who just happened to live on his street, not a wizard-outcast, but why did he recognise him?   
  
"Breathe in deep, and let the air out slowly. Breathe in deep... Breathe, damn it!" If that man was, or had been a wizard, he would recognise the Knut. He could only wait and see if they met again. He had made his move, now he just had to wait for his opponent to make his.   
  


~*~

  
  
But what was he to do when the other one didn't move when it was his turn? In chess-competitions he had attended they had used a time charm, forcing the players to make their moves within a given time frame. His time limit had expired only once - the feeling of his chair suddenly heating up below him was not a pleasant experience - and from that day he always made sure to make his moves on time. There was a similar time limit in ordinary wizard chess-games too, sort of. The chess-pieces were easily bored and used to walk away if they had to wait for too long.   
  
That was probably what he ought to do, to walk away, but he couldn't let go. And how can you walk away from an image that's haunting you, the memory of someone you've only met once.   
  
He missed his Knut too. He hadn't got much wizard money in his flat, he didn't need it after all, therefore the pouch where he kept his spare money held a grand total of three Galleons and eleven Sickles. No Knuts, he had checked. There was a lot more than that in his vault at Gringotts, half his salary was transferred there every month, but in everyday life he used Muggle money. To visit Gringotts to get _one_ Knut from his vault was just ridiculous, and he didn't want to buy something unnecessary just to get some change - he had all the Beetle Eyes he needed, thank you very much. A bit of twisted logic told him that it would be easier to try and get his old Knut back from the homeless man. A probably much saner part of his mind also told him that he didn't really need that tiny piece of metal. He would have to try to listen to the voice of reason.   
  
Parchment and ink from the drawer, the rooster-feather from the vase on the bookshelf. He was supposed to get some work done, but instead he wrote a letter to his mum. That usually helped him when he was confused.   
  
He never sent it.   
  


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	3. Big city – big loneliness

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**A/N:** New version, but not much is different. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.

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2. Nd2 e5: Big city - big loneliness

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Nd2

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White Knight

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"To make it a habit takes the edge out of both pleasure and pain." - Queen Kristina

  
  
It was a challenge to shave with a piece of glass, even if it was sharp. Especially if it was sharp actually. He cut himself for the second time this morning. This particular piece seemed to be sharp in all the wrong places. He put the injured finger in his mouth and tried not to look at it or think about the blood that might be trickling from the small wound. He sucked gently but no, he didn't feel the metallic taste of blood. Only a shallow cut this time. He took a deep breath and continued shaving only to cut another finger moments later. Bloody hell! Why did he even bother?   
  
But he knew why he bothered; he needed his routines, needed to keep some of his old habits to stay sane. That was why he shaved with a piece of glass inside a public lavatory, and that's why he tried to keep himself clean even if that meant washing his hair with icy-cold water. How else could he have survived for more than two years in _that_ place? He washed his face too and dried both face and hair off on one of his less filthy blankets. His hair was still damp when he had finished, but he couldn't do much about that. The blanket wasn't a very good towel and there were no paper-towels in here except for the ones littering the floor.   
  
He had discovered some time ago that the lavatories intended for the other sex usually where much nicer than men's toilets. Somewhat cleaner and usually with a mirror or two intact. This one was filthier than most, but that was a good thing. The smell and the early hour made it less likely that someone should walk in on him while he was washing himself. If someone had found him here they'd probably think that he was some kind of pervert trying to peek at peeing women.   
  
He looked at his reflection in the dirty mirror, a pale face with gawky features, and sighed. Not a pretty sight. His hair looked grey and lifeless, but at least it was a bit cleaner now. He could have killed for a bath or a hot shower, not that it would have helped his hair much, but he missed the luxurious feeling of hot water and shampoo, shower-gel and cleanness. He had used to monopolise the bathroom for hours when he was in that mood, not that it really mattered since they had had three bathrooms at home, and he wasn't supposed to think about that now. _Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it. NOT THINKING ABOUT IT!_   
  
Concentrating on the outside rather than the inside he stared angrily at the mirror. His mirror-self returned the disgusted glare. Everything that had made him cute as a kid and a young teenager seemed to laugh him in the face now. His beautiful hair had grown darker with time, until it settled with a horrible plain mousy-brown colour that only turned half-decent in the few months when the sun acted as bleach. When his classmates had hit growth-spurt after growth-spurt he had remained annoyingly short. Well, his growth-spurts had kicked in too, but he could never reach the same height as his tallest classmates. He seemed to have been doomed to stay put as one of the shortest boys in his year. It couldn't have been more than a handful of boys his age that were shorter than he was. Being taller than the girls didn't really count. He wasn't that bothered about his height anymore, he had gained about an inch since leaving school, but his frame was still too thin. It didn't matter how much he worked out, he could never get that muscular look, and he hated his skinny legs. Thank god for long robes and baggy trousers!   
  
In a moment of self-torment he removed the clothing on his upper body. Goose bumps immediately started to form on his arms as the chilly air hit pale skin, but he ignored the cold and studied his body instead. Too much sharp angles and edginess. "Bony," he said to himself, "there's no other word for it." The muscles on his stomach were clearly defined, but not because he had worked out a lot, he just happened to have almost no body fat. 'I hope the starved look is in fashion this year', he thought bitterly and made a face to his reflection. He might look fit to an untrained eye, but he knew that he wouldn't last many minutes in a Quidditch game. Quidditch. Fuck! Why did he have to think about Quidditch?   
  
He quickly dressed again and tried to comb his horrible, rat-coloured, _plain_ hair with his fingers. Bleach started to seem like a good idea actually. Right, he hadn't got any money. No wait a minute, he actually had some money now, but nothing he could afford to spend on hair-care products. He gritted his teeth together. Life wasn't treating him very well right now, and he hadn't even got someone he could complain to.   
  
He refused to accept help from Muggles, or even talk to them if it wasn't necessary for survival. The hatred was etched so deeply inside him it had become as much a part of him as his arm or his leg. He couldn't bear to give it up even if everything he ever believed in seemed to have blown up in his face once and for all. If he let go of that hatred, he would admit that he had had wrong, and then he might as well throw himself in front of a train right now. Just keep up the old habits and everything will be all right. Don't think about the things of the past. It had all worked perfectly until now. Until five days ago actually, when he had met another wizard, a wizard who might have noticed him as one of his own kind. No, who was he trying to fool? That Knut must have slipped down in the cup by accident.   
  
It had been a crazy week. Being able to eat regularly had got him less apathetic but as his brain started to work at normal speed again the unwelcome thoughts came back. "Someone memory charm me" he groaned to no one in particular. Why couldn't his past just go away like the dirt in the sink went away if he let the water run long enough? Maybe more water needed to flow under the bridges before the past was rinsed away completely. He put his hand in the pocket where he kept his money. The coins clattered against each other as he moved his hand trying to count them. One or two days worth of food if he couldn't get any more money today. It was strange to have a plan B, even if it wasn't much spare money. The Knut lay in his pocket among the rest of the money, one painfully familiar shape among outlandish Muggle coins. Would he ever get used to it? Did he even want to get used to it? No. He withdrew his hand from the pocket and finished his morning ritual by carefully wrapping up the piece of glass in brown paper and then quickly brushing his teeth with a stolen Mickey-Mouse toothbrush.   
  
It was still very cold outside, but the frosty morning-air was better than the stench of urine and vomit from the toilet-booths. The streets were fairly empty at this time. Only postmen and other people with some job or another to do were out at this time. He started to walk aimlessly, it was too cold to stay still, and he needed to keep moving. His damp hair chilled his head and he shuddered involuntarily. He fished around a bit in his pockets and found the apple he bought yesterday. Breakfast. Everything was like it used to be. Everything in its right place. Moving to keep the cold from chilling him to the bones. Letting his feet walk all by themselves, allowing the movement put him in a self-induced trance. No unwelcome thoughts. Walk, walk, walk. His thoughts floated away from here, away from the dusty sidewalks, away from the people on their way to work, the ones ignoring him like he wasn't even human. The ones who didn't want to see him. He ignored them too; he was way above them, even as a fallen angel he was better than anyone of them could dream to be. Shutting out everything he concentrated on the task: to walk.   
  
The rain started 11.35 AM.   
  


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	4. e5

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**A/N:** New version, but not much is different. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.

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e5

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Black Pawn

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Ronald Weasley sat half asleep by the small round kitchen-table in his flat. He stared blankly at a bowl of porridge from under half-closed eyelids. A noise from the hall told him that the mail had arrived, so he rose, yawning and stretching, and slowly went to pick it up. Early mornings weren't his favourite time of day. The hall-mirror made a disparaging remark about his sleepy appearance, but he chose to ignore it.   
  
Two envelopes, one Muggle-newspaper and a brown parcel covered the tiny doormat entirely, but he already knew what the horrid rug looked like, and he didn't really want to see the cheerful "HOME SWEET HOME" right now. He snatched the mail from the floor and fled to the kitchen again, trying not to look at the bright orange rug with its black block letters. Ginny had made that terrible mat for him when he moved to this flat. He appreciated the gesture, but the violent colouring was probably harmful for his eyes.   
  
The porridge was a bit cold, but he ate it anyway as he read the comics in the Muggle-newspaper. The unmoving pictures never ceased to amuse him. Sometimes he poked them to see if they would move, feeling very stupid doing so. He browsed the headlines to see if he could find something of interest before giving his attention to the rest of the mail. One bill that he would deal with later, and one letter that offered to sell him custom-made wool socks at an incredible. That one went directly to the rubbish bin. No letters from the family, and nothing from his contact in the Ministry, such things usually came on Thursdays.   
  
Only the parcel left now, he shredded the wrapping-paper eagerly and revealed his strongest link to the wizarding world. The Daily Prophet. He put his bowl away and brushed some crumbs from the table before putting the newspaper in front of him. This was his moment of the day, no work, only the pleasure to watch what was going on in the wizarding world in his absence. Halfway through the sports section his wristwatch politely told him that he was late. It was a neat little thing, charmed so that it would appear to be an ordinary Muggle watch, but to magical people it acted as a normal clock. The little hands of the clock currently pointed at "You're late" and nagged at him for not being properly dressed yet.   
  
His tangled hair got a quick and painful brushing as he looked for some clean clothes. There where almost no clean socks left; he had to do the laundry sometime later this week. He left the apartment in a hurry, almost forgetting to bring his wand. It wasn't exactly necessary for work, but he liked to take it with him anyway. It gave a sense of security, and a feeling of home to have it tucked away in the back of his trousers.   
  
It was a fine morning and he took the time to enjoy the walk despite the fact that he was a bit late. He passed the place where he had met that strange man the other day and slowed down almost without noticing. When he realised that he was scanning the crowd to see if he could spot the man, he felt a bit stupid. He had looked for him every day this week without finding him. _Why am I looking for that man anyway?_ There wasn't any good reason really, but the feeling remained; he needed to see him, if only just to try and get his Knut back. He willed himself to speed up again and managed to get the small teashop almost on time.   
  
He could hear the phone ringing angrily inside as he struggled with unlocking the store. The amount of security was ridiculously huge for a tiny teashop and he cursed himself for not getting here earlier. The last lock finally opened and he rushed inside and snatched the phone from the counter.   
  
"The Yellow Teapot," he took a deep calming breath, "how can I help you." He tried to sound cheerful and not like he had just finished a marathon.   
  
"You're late." the voice of an angry woman shouted in his ear.   
  
"I'm sorry Mrs. Murphy, I..." he tried to apologise but to no avail.   
  
"You're still late," she bellowed, "I want the shop to open nine o'clock sharp!"   
  
"Yes ma'am." he said seriously. No use to argue when she was in this mood.   
  
"We're going to have some deliveries on Monday morning." she shouted, "Make sure to be here on time."   
  
"I'll be here, don't worry." he said and scribbled a quick note on a paper bag.   
  
"And make sure Tommy feeds the Kneazle." she barked before abruptly finishing the call.   
  
Ron rubbed his sore ear and tried to remember what that thing about the Kneazle was supposed to mean. He wrote it down to be on the safe side, one could never know with Mrs. Murphy. He had a feeling his employer was a bit deaf and possibly senile too, and if she kept on shouting at him like this he would soon be as deaf as she was. He sighed and removed the cover from the ancient cash register. Another day of work had begun.   
  
Settling down on the high stool behind the counter, he picked up his copy of the Daily Prophet. People rarely visited the shop this early whatever Mrs. Murphy said. His employer would surely throw a fit if she caught him reading, but he could see no harm in him entertaining himself in between customers. Half an hour later the bell above the door chimed. A middle-aged man entered; the first of today's many customers, passing by in a blurry of wrapping-paper, tea-blends and gift-boxes.   
  
The little old lady that visited the shop at least once a week showed up in the early afternoon, happily chatting about the horrible weather as she folded her umbrella. She usually wanted to smell all kind of teas, preferably the ones on high shelves, and this day was no exception. She made him fetch at least twenty different sorts for her to try before deciding to buy the same tea-blend as usual. He was relieved when she left three quarters of an hour later with a tiny bag of "Earl Green", a green tea with the same flavouring as Earl Grey.   
  
The instant she turned to go he picked up his newspaper again. Not very polite, but he had reached the horoscope section, and he always read that. Call it a morbid obsession, since his horoscope always seemed to foresee disasters, toothache or mad dogs. The horoscope for Pisces was, if possible, even more unpleasant than usual today.   
  
_The past will come back and bite you today. It will tear off a big chunk and then chew on the pieces before spitting it out on the floor, making a mess. Then you die. So it's no use cleaning the floor today; it'll be dirty again tomorrow anyway. _   
  
He looked at the tiny wizard-photo under the column. A young mysterious looking woman with more jewellery than his old divination-teacher gazed into an orb. The name under the photo read Lavender Sphinx, but it was none other than his former classmate Lavender Brown. Apparently her name wasn't mysterious enough when she started working at the newspaper. He had a feeling she always gave Pisces a bad horoscope just to annoy him, but that could be his paranoia speaking. He never liked divination much, not even when the centaur had taught the subject, and Lavender didn't appreciate him ridiculing her favourite subject.   
  
The horoscope for Aquarius didn't sound much better than the one for Pisces.   
  
_You are in great risk of dying a painful death today. If you don't die, someone else surely will. It's one of those days. Stay away from big, black, scary-looking dogs, evil old ladies and train-crashes. _   
  
That was downright depressing and Virgo didn't make sense at all:   
  
_I sense a lack of clothing in this sign. You might "get lucky", but it's more likely that someone hits you with a streaking-curse during the day. Watch your back. Oh. And you're going to die. _   
  
This got scarier and scarier. Trelawney must be smiling atop her cloud, she would surely have been proud over her morbid ex-student. Lavender was worse now than he and Harry had ever been when they tried their best to invent new disasters for their weekly divination homework. He tried the horoscope for Gemini in a final attempt to find a horoscope that didn't predict doom and destruction.   
  
_If you fail to notice something important a great opportunity might be forever lost. You'll probably survive the day, but I wouldn't want to be you tomorrow. _   
  
If he knew Lavender it wouldn't get much better than this. He turned the page, not noticing that another person had entered the shop as the talkative lady left.   
  


~*~


	5. First capture

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**A/N:** New version, but not much is different. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.

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3. dxe5 Ng4: First capture

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dxe5

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White Pawn

** __

"You have to promise to never ask us why we fight." - Syster Birgers

  
  
The rain didn't seem to be thinking about ceasing anytime soon, and he was soaking wet, every single part of him. Four layers of clothing, all of them in different states of wetness, from damp to drenched. Trying to use the blankets as an improvised cover didn't help much; he needed to find a proper shelter. Suddenly a door opened in front of him and he almost crashed into a person with a red umbrella. He silently cursed the idiot for almost poking his eye out with that devious thing, but took advantage of the open door and sneaked in. Hopefully he wouldn't get thrown out at once, like he had been from the other places where he had tried to seek shelter today. They thought he scared the customers or polluted the neighbourhood or something like that. Bastards! They, if anyone, soiled this society.   
  
The gust of appealing scents that hit him as he stepped through the narrow door scattered his furious thoughts. The warmth and the rich smell of spices, cacao, tea and something else, something familiar, made him dizzy in a nice kind of way. He relaxed and looked around in the small shop he had entered.   
  
To his right where shelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with big metallic boxes that apparently held different tea-blends. He assumed they where tea-blends anyway, since some of the labels read "Earl Grey", "Cinnamon Tea" and "Breakfast Tea" although other labels made him wonder, "Gunpowder" sounded dangerous and "Cactus" was just weird. The shelves to his left bulged under the weight of teapots, big mugs and other tea things. He walked slowly along the shelves and amused himself with reading the hand-written labels.   
  
"Chocolate and cream" - he hoped that that box didn't contain tea, chocolate and cream was all right on their own, but tea was supposed to taste like tea and not like sweets, if you asked him. "Chai" - didn't that mean "tea" in Russian? He couldn't see the point in naming a tea blend "Tea". There had to be at least a hundred different boxes and he soon lost interest and began to look for other things. He examined a round teapot the size of a beach ball. How anyone could lift that when it was filled with tea was beyond him.   
  
At the sound of rustling paper he turned with a start. In his eagerness to explore the interior of the shop he had failed to notice the person sitting behind the counter reading. Him. Again. The man he least of all wanted to see. He had done a fine job avoiding the man lately, only seeing him once or twice. He hadn't exactly stopped to think about _why_ he didn't want to see the man. It had simply seemed like a good idea to turn and walk the opposite direction whenever he saw red hair. Those brown eyes had made him feel so much, and the Knut had stirred memories that didn't need stirring. And now he had apparently managed to run into the shop where the man worked. Great. If this was someone's idea of a joke he was going to kick said someone in the arse if they ever met.   
  
Mr. Black Boots must have felt his stare because he looked up and got sight of him. Recognition and surprise washed over his face. He looked stupid, with his mouth half-open like a retarded goldfish. And was that the Daily Prophet he was reading?   
  
He quickly turned his back to the other man and pretended to look at a shelf crammed with ugly metallic boxes illustrated with teddy bears, kittens and stupid, smiling sunflowers. The time ticked away. It was surprising that the man hadn't thrown him out for scaring off the customers or dripping rainwater all over the floor, and he decided to take advantage of being indoors as long as possible. Suddenly he felt a pleasant wave of heat that seemed to radiate from his bones. He knew that if he would care to look he would see steam rising from his damp clothes and hair. A heating charm.   
  
"Didn't your mother tell you," he said coldly as he turned to look at the other man, "that it's not very polite to cast charms on someone without asking first?"   
  
"You looked cold." the man said, looking guilty, and was that a flicker of pain? The guilty look on the man's face pleased him, but the pained expression that had followed puzzled him. He hadn't even _tried_ to be nasty.   
  
He sniffed. "It's still not very polite."   
  
An awkward silence followed, but the guilt and whatever that other expression had been was soon replaced with a smug grin.   
  
"So" the man said, looking way too pleased with himself, "then you are a wizard after all."   
  
"No" he said coldly, and way too quickly. This conversation wasn't going in a direction he liked.   
  
The man looked surprised at the sudden outburst and the unspoken questions in those brown eyes willed him to continue.   
  
"No" he said silently "I'm not a wizard anymore."   
  
"So you _were_ a wizard." the other man said slowly and the expression in his eyes changed from surprise to concern. Why couldn't the man just let it drop? He was worse than a dog with a mouldy bone!   
  
"That's none of your business!" he snapped, "Maybe I was... I was a wizard," he forced himself to say and slowly slid down with his back against the wall, anything to avoid those piercing eyes. "Long time ago." he continued, "Not looking back." He suddenly felt very tired again. It was difficult to find the words, and to put them together to sentences. This weakness scared him. He heard the sound of wood scraping against wood and then footsteps. Soon enough those black boots were standing in front of him again. Deja vú. Only this time the man wore black jeans, last time his trousers had been grey. Odd how small details like that had stuck to his mind. He sighed. Glaring wouldn't solve any problems so he closed his eyes and concentrated on the sharp corner of a shelf digging into his back instead. A hand gingerly touched his shoulder but he shrugged it off; he didn't want his touch, and didn't want his pity. No one was allowed to touch.   
  
The guy with the boots sat down right next to him instead. His skin prickled with unease. Too close. He could feel heat radiating from the body next to him and he didn't like it a bit. He wanted, no he needed, his personal space, thank you very much. But he wasn't ready to get up from the floor just yet; instead he pulled up his knees and put his arms around them. The presence of another human being so close still unnerved him, but it felt a bit better to have shielded himself somewhat.   
  
"How can you stop being a wizard?" the man asked softly, stupidly.   
  
"They _killed_ my wand, that's bloody how!" he yelled, silently hoping that the violent outburst would shut the man up. It did. The shock-factor could be a useful tool, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that it would last very long.   
  
Deciding that attack was the best defence he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew the Knut. From the corner of his eye he could see the other man watching him silently. "Why did you give me this?" he asked and slowly turned the coin between his thumb and index finger. He had the time to turn it two and a half time before Black-boots answered.   
  
"I... honestly I don't know." the man stuttered, "It seemed like a good idea at the moment."   
  
It wasn't a very satisfying answer. In a way he was scared by the fact that this guy seemed to have known that he was a wizard all along. The fact that the whole thing about the Knut might have been a deliberate act also made him slightly uneasy, although a small part of him was glad it wasn't just a mistake.   
  
He sat in silence. It felt strange to have any kind of conversation with the man without knowing his name. Not that he really cared, but he had a desire to put labels on things. He needed a name to call him, if only in his head. "The guy with the boots". Black-boots? Black? No. That felt even more peculiar, to name him after the first criminal that had managed to escape from Azkaban ever. The thought of Azkaban made him shudder instinctively, and he hugged himself tighter.   
  
The other man was holding his breath as if he was about to say something.   
  
"Did you want something?" he asked impatiently when the other man showed no sign of uttering a word.   
  
"Can I have it back?" Black-boots finally said.   
  
"No." he snapped before his curiosity got the better of him, "Why do you want it?"   
  
The man looked embarrassed and gave a small sigh before speaking, "I... It's a long story really. You know, just forget it. It's stupid."   
  
"Fine." he said sourly and tucked the coin back in his pocket. They sat in silence for what felt like a very long time. In reality it might have been less than two minutes, but awkward silences tend to stretch the time and make it run slower than cold syrup.   
  
"Is it raining still?" he finally asked to break the embarrassing silence.   
  
"I don't know." Black-boots answered and leaned over him to get a better view of the door, "No. I don't think so."   
  
"Then I'd better go." he said, and tried to pull his now much drier blanket from underneath the other man.   
  
"Where?" the idiot asked, "Home?"   
  
"I don't have a 'Home'." he snarled and gave him a nasty look. It would have been easier to lie and tell him that he was indeed on his way home, but it was almost worth it just to see the look on the mans face.   
  
"I'm sorry!" Black-boots blurted, blushing slightly "I didn't think... Is there anything I can do to help?"   
  
"What?" he almost yelled.   
  
"I'd like to help. It's hard to see a fellow wizard suffer."   
  
"I'm. Not. A. Wizard. Anymore." he hissed through gritted teeth.   
  
"I'd still like to..."   
  
"Leave it." he interrupted harshly and managed to free his blanket with a violent tug that almost made him fall backwards.   
  
"You don't have to be so..."   
  
"Yes I _have_ to!" he yelled, but the shock-factor didn't seem to work at all this time.   
  
"I just thought..."   
  
"Well. Maybe you where wrong." he hissed and quickly got to his feet.   
  
He managed to stomp on the other mans foot and also "accidentally" give his leg a kick on his way past him. Judging by the gasp from the man his kick had caused at least a little pain. Without apologising he stormed off, smirking as he slammed the door. A dark devious joy filled him. That had felt good. Had he cared to look back before leaving he would surely have been pleased by the look of hurt and confusion on the other mans face.   
  


~*~


	6. Ng4

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**A/N:** The chapters are going to get longer from now on. This chapter is a bit altered to fit with the plot, but no really big changes. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.

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~*~

  


Ng4

**

Black Knight

**  
  
Ron stared at the newly slammed door. The bell above it still swung violently back and forth. He rubbed his abused leg absently. Ouch. There was no chance that the other man had stepped on him by accident, but why anyone would stomp someone on purpose was beyond him.   
  
"Evil git." he murmured as he retreated to the stool behind his counter. He tucked some stray hair-strands behind his ear and turned back to The Daily Prophet. The characters in the comic-pages seemed to have found something funnier to do than to entertain him. The page was empty except for a girl in his least favourite comic who was very busy eating a lollipop. She removed the lollipop from her mouth only to stick her tongue out at him. He chuckled as she managed to get the sticky sweet stuck in her hair in the process, but after that she ignored him completely. He sighed and put the paper down again, not feeling like reading anything more advanced than the comics.   
  
A couple entering the shop offered him some welcome distraction. Unfortunately for them he couldn't really concentrate, and drifted off in his own thoughts every now and then, not quite listening and therefore asking them the same questions repeatedly. Not surprisingly they where irritated by his forgetfulness and distracted manners. He somehow managed to help the annoyed pair before giving up and closing the shop. Mrs. Murphy probably wouldn't mind, she was more concerned about him being there on time in the mornings anyway, and she usually told him if he was to expect really important customers. After managing to lock every lock and activate the advanced alarm system in record time (4.5 minutes) he hurried home. He willed himself not to look for the homeless man on the way.   
  
Ron arrived to his flat earlier than he used to. It was too early for dinner and too late for tea. He decided that some work could probably take his mind of things. There had been some activity last week and he had a few ideas he thought might be useful. He shifted through the pile of less important observations but decided he would run through those too, not because he had too but because he wanted to, he arranged the colour coded observations in chronological order before pulling out parchment and quill and start writing.   
  
He wrote with a speed and energy that would have made Hermione proud, and cause everyone else who thought they knew him to question his sanity. It was a matter of interests really. In school they usually got boring assignments, and Ron simply wasn't interested in putting his soul in that. This was another matter entirely. This felt meaningful and this was fun! While some things he had to write were pure routine and quite boring, most of the assignments where both fun and challenging and made him want to do his best.   
  
Last spring when he got the news that he was getting to work in the Muggle-world he had been almost ecstatic with joy. He had been a pain in the neck for the rest of the family the last month before he moved from the Burrow, talking non-stop about his new job and his every progress in the Muggle-studies course he took in the evenings to prepare for the jump from the wizarding-world. He didn't realise it was annoying until Ginny finally snapped and told him how much he suddenly resembled Percy when he was in his most annoying mood, only worse. She didn't phrase it exactly like that, her version involved a lot more swearing and yelling, but the message got through. Ron tried to shut up after that. There was nothing he disliked more than being compared to his brothers, and he knew how much Percy had annoyed him when he went on and on about his job, and Mr Crouch, and cauldrons, and illegal flying carpets, and whatnot.   
  
It was ironic really that he would end up much like his brother, writing endless lengths of parchment in the evenings. Much like his brother but not exactly like him. The exception was that the things _he_ did were much more important than his brother's rants about cauldron-thickness, in his not-so-humble opinion anyway. And he would never, _never_ do what his brother had done.   
  
While he was pondering the importance of his own work a spectacular ink-stain slowly blossomed over the parchment. He cursed loudly and started rewriting the report. His quill had a spell-check-spell on it, but it couldn't keep him from soiling the parchment if he wasn't careful. It wasn't _that_ fun to rewrite things so he usually tried to write neatly the first time around. He needed to concentrate now. Work and musings about his family apparently didn't mix very well.   
  
Ron reached for the Muggle-wand that controlled the stereo and managed to knock down the stone he used as a paperweight; he cursed and put it back where it belonged before pressing the play-button. Music suddenly filled the room. He adjusted the volume to an enjoyable level and continued writing. The music worked like a charm, and he managed to think only of work and music for a while.   
  
After what felt like much shorter time than the actual hour it took, the floor was littered with ink-stained parchment, but on his desk lay several scrolls neatly bound together with strings in different colours. His stomach growled, but he ignored it and shoved his reports into a plastic-bag. He might as well deliver them before bothering about dinner.   
  
Half way down the stairs he realised that he had forgot to change from his slippers. He cursed but continued downstairs, hoping that he wouldn't meet anyone he knew. It wasn't that far to walk after all. It took him less than two minutes to reach his goal. A sign outside the small pet-shop announced that they where open so he hurried inside.   
  
The girl behind the counter smiled. According to her bright green nametag her name was Vera.   
  
"Back to look at the parrots again?"   
  
"Yes." he said and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He wished there where a better way to send urgent owl-post. He had preferred to keep an owl at home, but he couldn't open his windows wide enough to squeeze a bird through them, and he couldn't simply let the animal out through the front door. It would be cruel to keep an owl like that, without the ability to fly out and hunt as it pleased. To keep a bird of pray as a pet in a small flat in a Muggle-city was impossible.   
  
Vera showed him into another room that held a variety of bird-cages with all kinds of colourful birds inside them.   
  
"Can I look at that one?" he asked and pointed at a small yellow parrot. It hooted happily. Vera looked puzzled at the birds' sudden outburst.   
  
"Isn't it strange how they learn to imitate different things." she reflected. "We used to have a Grey Jako that could imitate the phone ringing."   
  
"Er... yes. That's odd." he agreed and glared at the yellow bird. Vera opened the cage and stroked the parrot affectionately with a strangely vacant expression on her face before handing it over to Ron. He took the bird from her and held it firmly in one hand as he pretended to scratch his own back with the other hand, reaching for his wand. The doorbell chimed.   
  
"Excuse me a minute!" Vera said and hurried out. Ron quickly tied as many scrolls he could to the parrots' leg. It hooted and tried to wriggle out of his firm grip.   
  
"Shut up Pig!" he hissed and finally let the disguised owl go, deciding two small scrolls was as much as the tiny bird could take. The rest of them where less urgent anyway and he could take them to a proper post office later this week.   
  
"Strange," Vera said and smiled, not noticing the yellow owl that flew over her head as she entered the room again, "there were no customers in the shop."   
  
"That's odd." Ron said, trying not to look too guilty.   
  
"So..." she said and gave him another bright smile "Where were we?"   
  
"You were about to show me that bird" he said, pointing at another yellow parrot.   
  
"Yes, right... Just a moment." she started to open the cage, but suddenly stopped and frowned.   
  
"Is... is there a problem?" he asked nervously. She usually failed to notice any missing birds after his little performance, mostly because there weren't really any missing birds. He hoped that she hadn't become more attentive all of a sudden. Pig was usually wearing an anti-Muggle charm as well as the parrot-glamour, but he had learned in the past that there wasn't such a thing as a foolproof charm. He had no need to worry however, the shop-girl where simply staring at his feet.   
  
"Do you realise that you are wearing furry slippers?"   
  
He had never before been so sorry that he wasn't authorised to use real memory charms in his work.   
  


~*~

  
  
"_Wingardium Leviosa_"   
  
He levitated the spaghetti from the saucepan and dumped the boiling water down the sink with the kind of ease that comes with practice. The first time he had attempted this little trick he had lost half of his dinner-to-be down the sink as well. It was a bit tricky to keep all the spaghetti-strands together while leaving the water behind and also keep a firm grip of the filled saucepan in his other hand. He had learned to do the levitation spell with his left hand since he needed the strength of his right hand to lift the water-filled saucepan. "Strange that water can be so heavy..." he mused while lowering the pasta in the now empty saucepan and pouring a generous amount of olive oil over it.   
  
The sauce was already prepared and bubbled happily in another saucepan. He was still a bit suspicious about the concept of cooking without a proper fire. One of the things he didn't like about his home was the absence of an accurate fireplace. Every witch and wizard knew that the fireplace was indeed the hearth of the home. Much of the household-equipment in his flat worked with the Muggle magic he now knew was called electricity, but he disliked using it much. He had taken a liking to the stereo, but that was the only exception, and he was glad that the kitchen was equipped with a gas-stove and not one of those suspicious-looking electric things. At least _something_ was burning when he was cooking, even if it wasn't the familiar flames of a magic fire.   
  
The first weeks when he lived alone had been interesting. Lots of food turned to black and smelly lumps, but thankfully no bigger accidents occurred. He had only cooked occasionally at home and to feed himself proved to be a big challenge. In a family as big as his there was no need for any of the family-members to cook more than once or at most twice a week, and he usually managed to trade his food-days for two days of doing the dishes. With a mother like Molly he hadn't really been interested in cooking when she could do it for him. There had been no need to stand in the kitchen and wrestle with that kind of household-magic when she was around. And now... Now he couldn't really come crying to his mother when he was hungry anymore, could he?   
  


~*~

  
  
The following Monday morning he opened the gate to the 3-story house and stepped out engulfed in thoughts. The homeless man had haunted his dreams. He didn't remember much, just that he had been in them. Something about that man intrigued him. He had more spikes out than a cactus, but still... The man had somehow caught Ron's attention and made him want to get closer despite his nasty attitude. His body language had virtually screamed: "DON'T TOUCH ME OR I'LL BLOODY KILL YOU!", but that wasn't the end of it. The man had somehow managed to both push him away and draw him closer.   
  
Shaking his head, he tried to figure out what the other man had been thinking and why he had acted the way he did yesterday, but to no avail. He had enough problems with sorting out his own feelings sometimes, and he hated it when he had to guess what other people were thinking or feeling or why they acted as they did. For example: How on earth was he supposed to know what another person felt about him if they didn't tell him about it? Girls seemed to do stuff like that all the time, using some secret code to show their interest and then expecting him to act according to that secret code too.   
  
If he had a sickle for every time he had found out a month or so later that a girl had been interested in him he would be a rich man now. Hermione had tactfully suggested him to take some lessons in body language. He had not so tactfully asked her to sod off, but he had actually read her stupid books. Maybe they had helped somewhat, he didn't really know. The subject was rather fascinating really, and he still had one of the books in his bookshelf. Not that he was going to admit that if someone asked...   
  
Ron was a very tactile person; he had always lived close to people and was used to express his feelings by touching and hugging family and friends. He felt completely lost talking about feelings or coming up with things to say in awkward situations. Humour might be the key sometimes, but there where situations when he didn't want to crack a joke. It was so much easier to put a comforting hand on a shoulder, to bear-hug a sister after a bad break-up or to punch someone in the face instead of talking. He preferred to act, not talk, in difficult situations and that sometimes made things difficult.   
  
When he put his hand on the other man's shoulder he had violated his personal space. In hindsight that might not have been the best thing to do… The other man had probably felt threatened by what was meant as a simple gesture of comfort. He had sat for a long time thinking this weekend, but he couldn't decide what he could have done instead. The last time he had tried speaking soothingly to someone he had messed up so badly he didn't want to go through that again anytime soon.   
  
Ron rubbed his temples. He had to do something about this. For some reason or another he really wanted to get to know this ex-wizard, despite the gut feeling that he was going to get hurt. Badly.   
  
A crunching sound startled him out of his thoughts. If he where to believe in Lavenders morbid predictions for today he had probably stepped on Pigwidgeon or on someone's favourite lap dog. He looked down and lifted his foot carefully. A paper coffee-cup lay crushed on the pavement. Now _that_ was a sign if he ever had seen one.   
  
Later that day he actually saw the ex-wizard sitting on the street near the cheap restaurant where he usually spent his lunch-breaks when he didn't bring his own lunch to work. His mind went blank, but he managed to snap out of it and greeted the man as he walked past. He wasn't sure the man had seen him, but when he turned around he saw him staring in disbelief. When Ron smiled and waved at him the man quickly turned around. He grinned evilly as he waited for the waitress to show up with his lunch. It was a start.   
  


~*~

  
  
The homeless man seemed to be one of the regulars on a street Ron sometimes walked on his way home. He continued to smile and greet the man whenever he saw him. The first few times the homeless man ignored him, maybe because he thought that he was smiling to someone behind his back, Ron mused. About a week later the man seemed to have put two and two together, and he looked absolutely horrified at the fact that Ron was acknowledging his existence.   
  
After a few of these casual run-ins he decided that he was ready to talk to the man some more, all he needed was an opportunity. He didn't have to wait very long. Ron spotted the ex-wizard again the following day. He was on his way to get some groceries when he noticed a shabby-looking figure on the sidewalk. After debating with himself for a few moments he walked up to the man.   
  
"Hello again!" he cried cheerfully and crouched beside him. The look on his face made it totally worth it.   
  


~*~

  


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Next chapter: Draco is not happy about his brand new stalker... 


	7. Perfectly normal day

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**A/N:** This is one of my favourite parts of this fic... I hope you like it. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.

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**

4. h3 Ne3: Perfectly normal day

**

h3

**

White Pawn

** __

"Perfectly normal  
Tragically awful  
Perfectly normal day" - Speaker

  
Damn that black-booted git! He had to be stalking him. It was near impossible to go anywhere without bumping into the man, and every time they oh-so-accidentally met the man would smile and greet him heartily. This brand new stalker apparently passed his street on his way to and from work, but that didn't make up for all of the run-ins. He was severely tempted to go and try his luck in a different part of the city, or why not a different city altogether, or another country… But this was after all his home, kind of, and he didn't want to have to start again on another street. It had taken nearly two months for him to become what he was, and he didn't want to abandon his place. It wasn't worth it. He couldn't decide what to do and in the meantime the git was driving him crazy with his friendly smiles.   
  
They had talked once. ONCE! Well, maybe twice, but that first time didn't really count. They had only talked once, and the moron acted as if they where long lost friends or something. It was DRIVING HIM CRAZY! He stared up and down the street before finally settling down. No sign of him today. No sign of him yet anyway. Searching in his many pockets he finally managed to find his paper-mug. He put a few coins in it before placing it in front of him and then hid his hands in the blankets again. The hurrying feet would soon put him in that trance-like state of mind that allowed him to think of nothing.   
  
"Hello again!" He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden outcry, but he soon regained composure and glared at the intruder.   
  
"You." he said with disgust as he recognised Black-Boots the Amazingly Annoying Wizard, "What do you want?" The other man ignored the question; instead he examined a white pebble on the ground.   
  
"I recognise you from somewhere..." the wizard said thoughtfully and turned to look at him. He stared at the man in disbelief; that had sounded like a really bad pick-up line.   
  
"Yes" he forced himself to say as he closed his eyes, "I believe we met yesterday."   
  
"No not that."   
  
He sighed. Screwing his eyes shut didn't help, the man was still there when he opened them again. "We also met some weeks ago." he explained patiently. He wanted to scream but had heard that lunatics should be handled gently.   
  
"Yes I know that," the annoying wizard said and sat down more comfortably next to him "But I recognise you from somewhere else. Maybe we went to school together?"   
  
"Not very likely." he ground out through gritted teeth. He sure hoped not anyway.   
  
"No?" the man asked casually, "I guess I was wrong then." And with that Black-boots got up and was gone as suddenly as he had appeared. The space beside him felt strangely empty. He shook his head and glared in the general direction to where the man had disappeared. What the hell had that been about?   
  
And why couldn't the man just let him be? "Please leave me alone" he whispered to the world in general. That was all he wanted right now.   
  
~*~   
  
Soon enough he began to regret that wish. Bumping into the man nearly every time he turned around was certainly annoying, but after over a week without seeing him at all he started to feel increasingly unnerved. Just because he didn't see the man didn't mean that the wizard wasn't there. He had the sneaking suspicion that someone was watching him, and various incidents proved it. Things like this. He stared unhappily at the paper cup in front of him.   
  
There was a cauldron-cake in his cup. A cauldron-cake. He had no idea where it had come from. No, that wasn't true, he had very strong suspicions about where it came from, but he had no idea how it had ended up there without him noticing. Probably a clever banishing-charm, but it still annoyed him that he hadn't seen it coming. He might have blinked or looked in another direction for a few seconds and there it was. A cauldron-cake. He was severely tempted to stuff it down the wizard's throat next time they met, but his stomach got the better out of him and he ate it instead. It tasted better than he wanted to admit.   
  
And it stirred memories, memories of home. The air felt stuffy, he needed to get away from here. Where did all the dust and smog come from? He crammed the paper cup in his pocket, without emptying it first, and fled.   
  
_"You promised me!" he yelled angrily. "I want my cookies now!"   
  
"I know dear, I know I promised but we're out of them right now. See, the jar is empty." He had cried then, cried because he was rarely denied something he wanted. The girl - he couldn't remember her name, but he remembered her hands and her auburn hair - had tried to comfort him.   
  
"Shush, it's all right, we can bake new ones, please don't cry."   
  
He had gazed up at her through a thin layer of tears.   
  
"Really?"   
  
"Really, really." she said with a relieved smile._   
  
He pushed his way violently through the crowd. Not caring about the angry glares and shouts he got from people when he shoved them aside. He didn't apologise - why should he? - They where the ones standing in his way, and they must be the ones making the air so damned difficult to breathe.   
  
_They had gone to the kitchen hand in hand, and the girl had searched the cupboards and pulled out packages of flour and sugar and baking soda. He had watched her in wide-eyed awe as she prepared the ingredients. When she had let him measure some of them, one cup of this, two cups of that, he had fallen in love. It was like some new kind of magic when the ingredients they mixed together turned into yellow-white dough to form into cakes. His cauldron cakes were askew but she told him they where beautiful. _   
  
Suddenly a ghastly man appeared in front of him. Black wild eyes with deep shadows under them glared at him. He staggered back in shock only to realise that it was his own reflection in a window that had startled him.   
  
_When his parents came home they found him and the girl sitting at the kitchen-table with a house-elf, laughing and eating home-made cookies. They didn't say much about it, but he never got that particular baby-sitter again. From that day on the cookie-jar was never empty, but he always remembered the cauldron-cakes he had made all by himself. In his memories they always tasted best. _   
  
He never saw the car coming, and that moment of inattention nearly took him out of his misery for good. The screeching of breaks and the furious honk of a car-horn gave him time to throw himself to one side without getting hurt much. He had felt the deadly Muggle-device sweep past, and he got a good close look of the cars hubcaps. Too close.   
  
An old woman hurried forward to him. "You have to watch where you are going." she yelled and shook her umbrella at him, "Do you think you're invincible?" He thought she might hit him with that umbrella, but he didn't say that.   
  
"No." he said absently and tried to stop her fussing over him. Her shrill voice hurt his ears. The car that had almost hit him was already gone, and no one except this crooked old woman seemed to have noticed anything. _They don't care if a homeless beggar gets run over by a car_, he thought bitterly. _They probably think it would be a good thing as long as my brain doesn't make a mess on_ their _newly polished car_.   
  
"I'm fine!" he said impatiently to the old woman, but he was silently thankful that she helped him up. He wasn't hurt, he might develop a bruise or two, and there was probably a small cut on the side of his face, but other than that he was fine, a bit shaken maybe, but fine. It had been a close encounter.   
  
He managed to get rid of the senior citizen almost an hour later, but only after she had dragged him into a small, smoky cafe where the air made him cough. She force-fed him hot soup while trying to convince him to go see a doctor. Before she left him she pushed a couple of coupons in his hand, he later found out that each of the paper-pieces entitled him a free lunch at the small café. A sigh of relief escaped him when she finally disappeared behind a corner, but her words didn't leave him.   
  
_Do you think you're invincible?_   
  
No. A bit more than four years ago he had learnt once and for all that he was neither invincible nor immortal. It was a cruel awakening to realise that his father couldn't always save him. Just because Father once had the Ministry wrapped up round his little finger didn't mean that he still could make them fix everything his son got himself into.   
  
_"We need to contact your parents," the man said sternly. Contact his parents? Yes. Father would sort this out somehow. If only he could get his hands on an owl. What on earth did Muggles use instead of owls and floo-powder? He had learned that at Hogwarts, but he couldn't remember. He tried to think straight, but his head throbbed in a vicious headache. The man continued to ask him all kinds of questions, and he answered as truthfully as he could. He was 16 years old. Yes, he lived with his parents still. No they didn't live nearby. _   
  
_After what felt like at least a hundred questions the man departed, and he was left alone with his headache and his thoughts._   
  
It took the puh-leese nearly a week to track down his family, and when they finally did it was too late to save him. Minister Fudge had never valued a close co-operation with Muggle authorities and could do very little at that point. His case was too deeply engulfed in Muggle-bureaucracy and they would probably have had to do some massive memory charming to get him out of the mess. Apparently he wasn't worth that. His father's few remaining ministry contacts shook their heads and washed their hands clean of it. His mother seemed to drop it too, more or less. Other more important things apparently surfaced. He ended up behind bars for more than two years with a vague promise to be released when the Dark Lord took charge of things again.   
  
_Do you think you're invincible?_   
  
He felt betrayed.   
  
_invincible invincible invincible invincible?_   
  
Later he learned that he was quite lucky to take a Muggle-punishment for his crime. Father's contacts at the ministry actually encouraged his case to be left for Muggle puh-leese to sort out. Had he been forced to go through a proper trial at this time he'd probably ended up in Azkaban, as the son of a known Death Eater he was the perfect target to set an example. That was before Dumbledore's reform. He got to know that routine later… on a first-hand basis. That was when they killed his wand.   
  
_Invincible?_   
  
It might not sound that bad, to have ones wand snapped in half, but that wand had chosen him. They had lived and worked together for the better part of his life. It screamed when they murdered it, and he had been so very close to screaming too. A wand is as important to a wizard as the wizard is to its wand.   
  
_Do you think you're invincible?_   
  
Oh yes. They all thought they where invincible. Unstoppable. Immortal.   
  
_They where all cheerfulness and drunken laughter. On top of the world. Nothing could harm them on their way home through Muggle-London. Their clothes where black and green, generous layers of billowing fabric that seemed to flap happily in an invisible wind, or maybe snap after the Muggles passing by. A flash of silver from a belt-buckle crafted in the shape of a snake. The almost unnatural brilliance in his friends' eyes._   
  
_Some people turned to look at the strange party, but they dismissed the odd clothes as some kind of new fashion. A small underground group of kids with their music taste, their clothes and their special trademarks. Not one of the excited youth cared to conceal their newly acquired marks. Black skulls and snake-tongues stood out on pale skin. Some of the ones who saw the tattooed youth that night later claimed that they had felt a chill running down their spine at the sight of those marks. Of course they did. Who wouldn't shiver when they glanced at the face of death?_   
  
_Not them, they didn't wait or stop to think. The black skull didn't scare them. They where high on adrenaline, alcohol and magic. No one could touch them, they were the kings and queens in a world of pawns and imbeciles. Invincible. Every wish is a command. And tonight they wanted to kill._   
  
Years later in a dark alley the man that was once a wizard and a Malfoy cried out in pain and frustration. He couldn't stop thinking about this. The unwanted memories were back and now he couldn't stop them from returning.   
  


~*~

  
  


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Next chapter: Gilderoy returns, sort of. Ron feels like a secret agent but decides agains dying his hair green... 


	8. Ne3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**A/N:**I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.

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~*~

  


Ne3

**

Black Knight

**  
  
William Rosier was in his mid-twenties and made his living working in different fast food shops and restaurants. People assumed he was a foreigner; it wasn't true, but he might as well have been so he didn't deny it. People also thought he was a bit retarded; he wasn't exactly pleased with that particular assumption, but he grinned stupidly and pretended he didn't hear what they said about him behind his back. They would get what was coming to them eventually.   
  
The café where he worked at the moment wasn't very fancy, most of the tenants were senior citizens and students without much money. They seemed to employ anyone who was prepared to work hard and learn their way in the kitchen, but most important of all, they didn't seem to look up the backgrounds of the people they employed. It suited him perfectly considering the circumstances.   
  
A nasty outbreak of food poisoning had been traced back to the restaurant where he had worked before he got the job at the Watership Café. Normally the restaurant might have been able to recover from the blow, but a small baby died, and he soon found himself without a job when public opinion forced his workplace to shut down.   
  
"Hey, Will," one of his work-mates called, "help me with the soup will ya? We have to get ready for lunch and it's too heavy for me."   
  
He nodded and got the dirty potholders from their shelf. The box-like metallic container was filled to the brim with "Seafood Soup" and it smelled like a whole fishing fleet. He had learned that "Seafood" meant some kind of fish was involved and that a few shrimps might be floating on the surface. The girl called Gina turned around the corner with an armful of cutlery. He put the soup-container back on the workbench and pretended to rest before carrying it from the kitchen; it wasn't entirely an act, the damned thing made his arms feel like lead. He made sure no one looked and withdrew a vial from his pocket. The liquid inside was purple but odourless and he quickly dumped it in the soup. No change of colour, the soup still smelled like fish. Perfect. He smiled and carried his deadly load to the table where they served the two different dishes for lunch. He hoped the soup would be as popular as it used to be.   
  


~*~

  
  
Ron sighed and tried to throw yet another paper-dragon in the dustbin. No customers had wandered into the shop the past hour, not even one of the annoying ones that wanted to look at and poke everything but never bought a thing. In short: he didn't want to be there. His copy of the Daily Prophet missed several pages: most of them were folded into dragons, and five of them were in the bin, three on the floor. He had to clean that up eventually.   
  
Sometimes he felt so very lonely. He liked the Muggle world, and he had some Muggle friends; he talked to people, so it wasn't that. He enjoyed the company of his friends, but there was so much they wouldn't understand, things he could never tell them. He saw wizards when working, naturally, but he couldn't exactly talk to them, he had to stay unnoticed. That could be the reason he had made it part of his daily routine to check on the homeless man, he had been the first wizard he had met out here he didn't had to hide from. Nowadays he always watched from a distance since his presence was so clearly unwanted. He laughed mirthlessly. "If you don't have a life you can always spy on someone else's." Luckily he had a life, he told himself, and the homeless wizard was simply a hobby. Yes, a twisted little hobby.   
  
A customer made him perk up and quickly shove the slaughtered paper behind the counter. The man was dressed in a brightly coloured Hawaii shirt and eyed Ron with suspicion. He turned out to be one of _those_ customers so Ron had to lock the door and fetch the special herbs from the secret storeroom. The man didn't buy anything illegal but Ron would still report the visit. He had some other unsent owl-post, and Pig would be happy for the flight.   
  


~*~

  
  
"You _really_ need a haircut," the mirror in the hall declared as soon as he shut the door behind him. He ignored it. It always had some remark or another, and to criticise his hairstyle seemed to be one of the mirrors personal favourites lately.   
  
"It's supposed to be long." Ron explained to the piece of charmed glass, but it only made a disapproving sound, like glass braking. "Just my luck to get a mirror with an attitude," he growled and studied his tangled hair. The mirror actually had a point, he admitted reluctantly, his hair had been long for more than three months and it was time for a change. There was the possibility to simply change colour and keep it long, but Ron had never felt comfortable in anything other than bright red. He remembered the Black Fiasco and the Icky Brown colour, and don't forget the Maroon Disaster. A haircut seemed like the only option unless he wanted to do a nose-job. He happened to like his nose as it was, but unfortunately he was supposed to change his appearances now and then. Sometimes he thought his other employer was even crazier than Mrs. Murphy. A haircut was no big deal comparing to some things his boss had suggested in his (or her) owls.   
  
Bright green hair or a beard might have sounded like a good idea only a few years ago. Ron couldn't quite point out the exact time when he had quit trying so hard to be unique. He was Ron, a haircut wouldn't change that, he had five older brothers and whatever he did there was a big chance that they had done it before him. It was nothing more to it than that. Prefect? Congratulations, we've seen it before. Made it to the Quidditch team? How nice, just like your brothers. Ponytail? How cute, just like Bill.   
  
He still was Ron, and he was unique in his own way. That acceptance had given him some welcomed peace of mind. He hadn't stopped trying, but he had managed to gain a more laid-back point of view most of the time. There where still times when he slid back in his old bad self-confidence, but he knew intellectually that he didn't need to prove anything to the people that mattered. He remembered a conversation with his friends sometime during his school years; he had been a bit down over the fact that whatever he did, someone else in his family had probably done it too.   
  
_"You could push Snape up against a wall and snog him senseless." Hermione suggested cheerfully, "I bet no one in your family has ever done that."   
  
"Argh!" Harry yelled, "BAD mental place! I didn't need that image in my head."   
  
Ron stared at Hermione for a long time. "I doubt that anyone has ever done that to Snape."   
  
She grinned wickedly. "You never know..." she said and winked._   
  
He was pretty sure Harry had successfully repressed everything about snogging Snape in that conversation, but Ron never got any chance to forget, as soon as he looked gloomy without reason Hermione whispered "Thinking about doing Sssnaaaaaaaaaaaape?" or something similar in his ear. Ginny had started doing it too, and it was more than a little bit annoying.   
  
He had never fancied Snape in any way, but when he was about fifteen years old he had had a period when he was questioning his sexuality. Most of the time he blamed it all on Hermione. Some of her books could have made a nail question if it was straight, but Ron didn't really think that he was a homosexual. He liked girls after all. His reaction to Veela had to prove that beyond all doubt, right?   
  
It didn't really matter, he didn't have a special witch or wizard in his life right now, and he had a sneaky suspicion that if he ever got himself a boyfriend someone in his family would step out of the closet with a bang the next day. They were after all seven siblings, he didn't exactly know the odds for things like that, but he guessed there was a fair enough chance that one of them batted for the other team. _Probably Fred or George,_ he thought, _but they would be prepared to date guys simply to shock people anyway_.   
  
He shook all thoughts of haircuts and siblings from his head and tuned in on the WWN for a while. It was relaxing to listen to music while cooking. With windows and doors closed and silencing charms everywhere he could allow himself that luxury.   
  
A familiar song played and his foot started to sway in tune. It wasn't quite like he remembered it - a kazoo-solo seemed to have replaced the bagpipe one. What was it with popular music and kazoos these days? The singer was unfamiliar too, he remembered the deep smoky voices of Vanilla Witches and this wasn't like quite them. He couldn't remember the songs' name though. The last few accords ended and a witch that sounded eerily familiar announced:   
  
"This was 'Spell my heart' by 'Gilderoy Lockhart and The Mirrors'."   
  
Ron groaned. The accident with his wand (well, Charlie's wand) had left Lockhart without much sense left, and that man couldn't have had much in his head for starters, but apparently brains were optional for pop-singers. All it took was a charming smile, a few voice-altering spells and a good stylist. He wondered who had been stupid enough let Lockhart out from St. Mungos. The joined-up writing Gilderoy had learned might be useful after all, but Ron doubted he could survive in an environment where he couldn't write autographs. Life as a pop star must be the perfect carrier for a narcissist like him.   
  
"Some people shouldn't be allowed to make covers." he murmured and silenced the WWN with a flick of his wand.   
  


~*~

  
  
He tried to braid his hair the next morning to see if he could change his looks without chopping off the hair. The result was frightening, and the mirrors violent laughing-fit helped him make up his mind. Haircut, as soon as possible. He collected his hair in a ponytail and went to work.   
  
Mrs Murphy called around noon, and she was surprisingly encouraging when he mentioned he might need a few hours off sometime this week in order to get a haircut.   
  
"You take the rest of the afternoon off dear," she said. Ron thanked her as she kept on chattering. "And try to find someone who can get you a decent haircut. It did look a bit girlish last time I saw you." Ron suppressed a laugh. So that was why she was so supportive, girlish haircut? He suddenly remembered the braids and didn't comment. Mrs Murphy gave him some tasks to do before he closed up the store and made him promise to take a night shift in the store next month. Important customers apparently.   
  
To save time he wiped the counter and unpacked some of the new supplies at the same time as he tried to phone a hairdresser. The second one he tried answered, and the third one could squeeze him in this afternoon. He put the new supplies in their ceramic jars under the counter and swept the floor before leaving.   
  


~*~

  
  
He had some time before his appointment at the hairdresser and he decided to treat himself to lunch somewhere on the way. A small café caught his attention; he had noticed it before and now seemed to be a time as good as any to try it out. The food seemed to be affordable and the smoky anonymous interior suited him perfectly.   
  
He felt like eating soup today. The surly woman behind the counter took the money, and gave him a bowl. When he looked a bit lost she pointed at the food on the nearest table as if to say: 'Help yourself, I've done what I'm supposed to do.' He shrugged and filled his bowl with steaming hot soup before settling at a small table near the back.   
  
As he waited for the soup to cool down a bit he studied the other people in the café. A man, who might be in his late twenties or early thirties, appeared behind the counter and refilled the coffee-pots. Ron recognised him as one of his unusual customers and scribbled a quick note on a napkin. When the man came closer, wiping tables as he went, Ron looked for a nametag. Unfortunately the employees at the café didn't wear anything of the sort, but Ron thought he had heard someone call him Bill. Some days he felt like a secret agent.   
  
Another familiar face made him sink lower in his seat. It was one of his customers, the little lady who liked to stay and talk as long as possible and always, always wanted to smell every tea-blend on the top shelf. He had tried to rearrange the boxes so that the ones she usually asked for stood on the lover shelves, but she _still_ asked about the topmost ones. Luckily she seemed busy chatting with the woman behind the counter and choosing a nice sandwich and didn't notice him. She was apparently less ambivalent about sandwiches and left ten minutes later with a cheese one. Ron finished his soup, it was very good, and hurried to make sure he didn't miss his appointment. Mrs. Murphy didn't give him the afternoon off every day.   
  


~*~

  
  
According to the hairdressers nametag her name was Diana. She fussed over split ends he didn't know he had and asked several times if he really wanted to cut his hair that short. He sighed and nodded.   
  
"Kill your darlings," he murmured. She looked quizzically at him.   
  
"Yes," he said, louder this time, "Chop it off, I trust you to make a decent haircut out of it."   
  
She ran her fingers through his hair several times before bringing out the scissors. Ron was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable about all the attention, but luckily she soon got to work.   
  
The result was shorter. Much, much shorter. His neck felt uncomfortably cold, but he liked the way his hair looked. It was longer in the front than in the back and she had parted his hair so that the fringe fell down over his right eye. She held a mirror behind his head so he could inspect the neck to and then showed him a few different hairstyles he could do on his own. Nice. Ron ran his fingers through his fringe and smiled. He paid Diana what he owed and went out on the street again. The light felt unnaturally bright, but the breeze around his neck felt nice.   
  
Small hairs have a nasty habit of getting everywhere after a haircut. Ron considered banishing them like his mother used to do, but he wasn't sure how to do it without ending up bald. He scratched his neck absently; it wouldn't be so bad if the little buggers didn't itch like that. He walked the same way back and didn't really expect to see anyone he knew on the way, so it surprised him when the homeless man stepped out from the same café where he had eaten and hurried away. It wasn't his intention to follow him at first, it simply happened that they was going in the same direction. With the advantage of longer legs he had no problem keeping the man in sight.   
  
They say that curiosity killed the cat. He was curious by nature, and when he saw the now so familiar man turn around a corner and disappear into a dark, abandoned alley he decided to follow. In hindsight that was probably a stupid idea. Walking into very dark alleyways was seldom a Good Thing To Do. He got no warning before the attack.   
  


~*~

  


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Next chapter: Dracos past, Rons mother, and some blood for good measure. 


	9. Scared dogs bite

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**Warning:** I guess the rating jumps up a notch now. Blood and violence and nasty things in the past...  
  
**A/N:** I'm really sorry this took so long. I blame computer trouble, microbiology and laziness... I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo, Lisa and Lynn, any remaining mistakes are my own. A big hug to everyone who has posted reviews and poked me to see if this fic was still alive. It means so much :)

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**

5. fxe3 Qh4+: Scared dogs bite

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fxe3

**

White Pawn

** __

"If a door closes in your life, a window will eventually open in its place. Sometimes doors close in your face and break your nose, but don't worry; you will probably look back at this with a fond smile in only a couple of years or so (If you survive). And remember: bloody noses heal eventually even if it might seem messy at first." – Lavender Sphinx

  
  
The sound of footsteps made him turn around, press his back to the wall and listen. Someone did follow him. When an unknown man walked passed the place where he stood pressed against the wall he jumped out and attacked the stalker.   
  
_Faceless. Always faceless in his dreams._   
  
He shoved the other man violently, grasping the front of his shirt and pushing him up against the wall. When he discovered who it was who had followed him his anger grew even more. That bastard had got a haircut, but he could recognise that face anywhere. He was smaller than Black-boots was, but the surprise of the attack made up for that.   
  
"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled. "Why are you following me?"   
  
Every question was emphasised with a new shove. He was angry but, more importantly, he was scared, and scared dogs bite. The other man seemed to be too surprised to even try to shake him off. A flash of emotion flickered across his brown eyes. Fear. Was he afraid? He should be!   
  
_Slut, slut, slut. Worthless animal. You're enjoying this aren't you?_   
  
He had acted on impulse when he pushed the other man up against the wall, and now he started to fear that Black-boots would kick his sorry arse when he finally snapped out of the initial shock. One part of him wanted to scream and kick and hurt until there was nothing left but a shivering puddle on the ground, one part wanted to run and run and never turn around, and another part wanted neither of that. He was torn between the impulse to flee and the urge to fight so he ended up doing noting but holding on to the other man for dear life. As long as he didn't let go the man couldn't hurt him. Right? Right?   
  
Black slowly opened his eyes and looked down on him. He seemed to be puzzled by the lack of action.   
  
_She wasn't trying to get away anymore. Slut. She wanted this._   
  
Somehow this was all Black-boots fault – And even if it wasn't he was going to pay. Since he had first met him he had started feeling things, and he had started hurting again. The numbness he had carefully built around his person had started to crack. Something bled inside him, it hurt, and someone was going to pay dearly for this. It would feel better if someone else was suffering too.   
  
"You bastard," he muttered, "you fucking bastard."   
  
He slammed Black against the wall again for good measure. The man cowered and shut his eyes, as if to prepare for a blow. Oh yes, he would hurt him. Injure him. Make him pay.   
  
_He was fairly certain it wasn't his idea from the beginning. Who went first? He couldn't remember. Crabbe? Goyle? She might have screamed at first but when it was his turn she was quiet. He remembered a wet, warm sensation. Girls were supposed to be wet and warm. He tried to tell himself the little slut enjoyed this, but somewhere deep inside he knew this wasn't exactly the kind of excited wetness he had heard about.   
  
This was the nearest she would ever get to a real pure-blooded wizard. She should be proud to get the chance to see what it was like. Fucking slut. She did enjoy this. He felt nauseated.   
  
Someone must have heard a noise or seen something because suddenly they herd sirens coming closer. They ran. Everyone but him. Surprisingly he had managed to disarm the phu-leese, a simple Expelliarmus was all it took. He laughed at the silly sticks they used as weapons. No one could touch him. No one. That was what he thought. He never got to know who crept up behind his back and whacked him in the head. It couldn't have been her, could it?   
  
It wasn't until later he discovered the blood on his hands, on his... No. He didn't want to think about that. He had wiped himself off and closed his trousers in a hurry when the phu-leese started swarming in . Everything looks black in the dark, and he hadn't noticed the blood on his hands. Her blood. Blood. Blood on his hands. Virgin blood._   
  
The world blurred in front of him. Now he held on to the other man for support more than blood lust. He suddenly found himself sitting on the cold ground without knowing how he ended up there.   
  
"Put your head between your legs. There. Try to breathe slowly"   
  
The other man gently pushed his head down and the fog in his head started to clear. He took a couple of deep breaths before sitting up straight again.   
  
"Better?"   
  
He snorted. Obviously.   
  
"You know, I'm sorry I shouldn't have... I was just curious, I didn't mean to..."   
  
"Oh shut up," he said irritably, "you're not making sense."   
  
"...is this where you sleep?"   
  
Draco narrowed his eyes and stared at the other man. "Sometimes," he admitted, "Further up the alley."   
  
Black-boots studied his hands as if they where the most interesting things in the universe. "You really have no-one, have you?"   
  
_Well thanks for rubbing that in..._ "There's a couple of distant relatives on my mothers side."   
  
"Oh?" Black-boots perked up, "What about them?"   
  
"They're all nuts," he said with a glare, "and would probably hex me if they ever recognised me."   
  
"Oh."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"No loved ones huh?"   
  
"Love?" He spat on the ground and made a disgusted face, "Who believes in love nowadays?"   
  
Black-boots dragged his finger through the dirt on the pavement. He traced the figure eight and then kept on dragging his finger in the same track. Eight. Draco cocked his head. Turn it over and it stays the same. Put it on its side and it's the sign of infinity.   
  
"My parents loved each other," Black-boots whispered.   
  
Draco studied the man from the corner of his eye. The small wheels in his head had started to turn. Wizard. Red hair. Something he was supposed to know. Yes of course – The Weasleys and their stupid family-values. This one was almost too good to pass.   
  
"You say that like it was a thing of the past," he said with a smirk, "She died, didn't she?"   
  
He sat close enough to feel the other man jerk before stumbling to his feet. Smiling he rose much more gracefully, taking great care to brush off every invisible grain of dust from his trousers. Definitely a Weasley, he knew how to handle, or rather manhandle, those.   
  
"Maybe they did love each other," he admitted "but look where that got them. More children than they could afford. They where fooled to believe in everlasting love, but no one had the time to teach them a simple birth-control charm."   
  
Oh that had struck a nerve, the idiot didn't even stop to think how he could know about his family conditions, he seemed to be busy vibrating with suppressed anger. Draco watched the clenched fists. They were shaking slightly. Fascinating. Who was hurting now? Huh? Who was bleeding? He wanted to scream at the Weasel in front of him, tell him it was his own fault, but instead he twisted the knife further. What's better to kick than someone who's already halfway down?   
  
"Pity she didn't snuff it sooner," he drawled, "that would have lessened the world's overpopulation considerably."   
  
He had barely finished the sentence before Weasley hit him. A cracking noise and the pain that made his vision blacken for a moment told him that something had probably broken in his nose.   
  


~*~

  
  


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Next chapter: A letter, another piece of the past and I guess we have to do something about that nose... 


	10. Qh4

FanFiction.Net 

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**A/N:**I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo, Lisa and Lynn, any remaining mistakes are my own. Phew... Only one chapter left after this, but as usual I'm going to post it in two parts.

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Qh4+

**

Black Queen

**  
  
  
  
He couldn't believe he had actually lost control and hit the other man. It frightened him to know that he still had that uncontrolled anger in him; he thought age had given him control over his strong feelings. Blood still pounded in his ears, but the burning rage was beginning to fade and was swiftly replaced by guilt and concern. He hoped that he hadn't hurt the other man too badly. It was years since someone had managed to provoke him like that and even back then only a few persons had ever managed to rile him up like this. Most of them were supposedly dead. One of them was standing in front of him.   
  
Blood flowed from the other man's nose, but Ron still had the feeling that he was the one that was worse injured of the two of them. The acid words still caused a dull ache, and a small but noisy part of him screamed that he should be beating the shit out of this man for insulting his family. But he didn't listen to that voice anymore. He had already played right in the hands of the bastard, and when he hit him he had admitted his defeat. The words had ripped open old wounds and rubbed salt and acid into the bleeding cuts. He didn't want to give the man the pleasure to see that his words had cut deep enough for him to want to beat him to a bloody pulp, so he breathed deep and counted, and counted.   
  
"No need to overreact." The other man said calmly and oddly familiarly. He took his hand away from his bleeding nose. After one look at his slender fingers, painted crimson by blood, he turned ghost-pale and passed out.   
  
Oh great. Just great. What was he going to do now?   
  


~*~

  
  
William Rosier smiled as he cleaned up the mess remaining on the lunch table. There was a lot of soup left, and that was a bit disappointing, but he had seen a lot of people eat it, and not only old people. He couldn't suppress a chuckle. They wouldn't know what had hit them, and neither would the health officers. It would take 12 to 24 hours before the full effects set in, according to the book, and surely they would be too stupid to trace it back here. This would be nothing like food poisoning.   
  
Since it was plenty of soup left that would be thrown away anyway those who had worked today sat down for a quick meal. Gina sat down next to him and offered him a bowl of soup. He was a bit hesitant at first, but then he remembered something from the book - the potion only worked on Muggles, he was almost certain it said that. He smiled wide and accepted the bowl. Perfect. No one would suspect him if he had eaten the stuff himself. It was an excellent idea. He was pleased with himself for coming up with such a cunning detail.   
  
The soup was delicious.   
  


~*~

  
  
Every little piece of medical magic he had ever known seemed to swirl around in his head, he felt a bit dizzy for a moment. Had the other man only fainted he would have put his legs higher than his head to let the blood flow back to his head, but right now blood was pouring out of that same head and he had heard somewhere that bleeding body parts should be placed high.   
  
Then there was a small possibility that he had fainted due to some unknown disease or medical condition - he had looked like he was ready to pass out after attacking him. He conjured a towel and some ice to try and stop the bleeding, but he would probably have to mend the poor bastard's nose somehow. Having five brothers he knew something about broken noses. There where fairly simple charms to heal them but he couldn't recite them from the top of his head. He had a book on medical magic home in his flat, and he didn't dare to try something complicated without step-by-step instructions. Magical mistakes involving body-parts was usually a messy thing - he remembered that Vaseline-incident all too well.   
  
The towel and ice had lessened the blood-flow somewhat, but he didn't want to take any chances. He scooped up the unconscious man in his arms and Apparated directly home, braking at least four different laws and regulations doing so.   
  


~*~

  
  
Ron staggered under the man's weight when he arrived with a pop in the middle of the living room. He put him down on the sofa and left the towel for him to bleed on while he searched his bookshelves for the appropriate book. He had two rather large bookcases, one covering the wall to the kitchen, and one on the opposite wall, near his desk. He found the book on healing on a low shelf, crammed in between his advanced potions book and a stack of old notebooks. He must have managed to spatter something sticky on one of the books because they were stuck together. He pulled both of them out and tried, unsuccessfully, to pry them from each other.   
  
After consulting his aged copy of Household Healing - now with a potions extension glued to it - Ron performed a simple healing-charm to stop the remaining blood flow. The other man was still out cold. A quick diagnostic charm from the war popped up in his head, it was not that specific, but if the patient had any internal bleedings, corrosive curses or other life threatening conditions, you would know. A faint orange glow reassured him that his patient seemed to be fine. He stopped to think for a while. It would be easier to fix everything while the patient was unconscious and didn't complain. He mended the broken nose with another charm and sat down on the floor again. The adrenaline rush that had kept him going seemed to have ended abruptly, leaving him tired and empty. He slid down on the floor with his back against the side of the sofa.   
  
A letter lay on the floor inside the door; he hadn't noticed it before since he didn't enter through the door. It had at least ten different stamps stuck to the thick brown envelope, a sure sign of mail from home. He gave the unconscious man a quick glance and decided he could wake on his own.   
  
_Dear Ron,  
I cleaned your room today, well actually we cleaned the whole Burrow, Fred and George visited and helped too. It felt so weird to be in your room without you. It wasn't as bad as cleaning that place, you know, but sometimes I wonder if you ever cleaned your room properly. No wonder Mum had fits about you. It's so weird with all of your things gone, you really_ have _moved out for good, haven't you? I haven't seen you since Christmas and that's more than four months ago!   
Back to the cleaning. You left some interesting junk under your bed... RON! Haven't you learned anything from the twins? Don't leave evidence behind, ever. Some of the magazines where rather amusing actually. Naked_ wizards, _who would have known... I'm keeping those by the way, I burned the rest. Those kinds of magazines are discriminating and exploit witches. Shame on you! I found a stack of old, mouldy parchments there too, they looked unimportant but I couldn't separate them from each other and when I tried to throw them away I couldn't. Clever little enchantment... did Hermione help you with it? It's entirely your fault that Fred sprouted antennas when trying to crack the hex on it. Anyway, I sent the stuff to you. Who knows, it might be important._   
  
The letter went on, but Ron turned his attention to the stack of parchments Ginny had mentioned. He pressed his palm to the centre of the topmost parchment and touched each fingertip in turn with his wand. The black mould melted away to be replaced by black ink. He remembered writing the letters carefully   
  


_Draco Malfoy_

  
  
Ron remembered the day he disappeared. He had always suspected some kind of foul game, even after his friends lost interest in the sudden departure of their favourite childhood foe. He had started to collect "evidence" in this file around that time. It started as a childish pastime, followed him during the war, and finally got some kind of resolution during the confusing months after V...Voldemort's defeat. He had been right, but he could never have imagined them exactly how foul the things he had managed to dig up would be. He turned the pages without reading properly, he knew what they said already and he had put that shit behind him. A Muggle photograph slid out from one of the pages and fluttered away. Ron rescued it from under the sofa and sat back on his heels, facing the other man. He slowly lifted the photograph, comparing the scowling adolescent in the picture with the sleeping adult in front of him. He felt a wave of conflicting emotions when he realised he had found his old enemy.   
  
Malfoy. He could barely stand to think the name after what Malfoy Senior had done to his friends both during the war and before it. But the old Malfoy was dead, good riddance, and this wasn't him. The photo went back where it belonged, secured with a piece of spellotape, and the file was spelled shut again. Ron shoved the file between two books in the nearest shelf with unnecessary force.   
  
"He's not his father," he thought, "he's his own disgusting self."   
  
Ma... Draco seemed to be asleep when he checked, nothing that unusual, some of the healing charms made you drowsy. It wasn't that difficult to fix, he would simply have to... Ron groaned. He could have enervated him instantly instead of going through all this trouble, but then he might not have realised who the homeless wizard was. No use thinking about that now, what's done is done, water under the bridges and all that rubbish.   
  
"Enervate!"   
  
Dazed grey eyes looked up at him.   
  


~*~

  


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Next chapter: Tea with a Weasley. The calm before the storm, or something like that. 


	11. Life debt

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**Warning:** I guess the rating jumps up a notch now. Blood and violence and nasty things in the past...  
  
**A/N:** Someone told me Draco needed some shampoo... This one's for you Tazy :) I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo, Lisa and Lynn, any remaining mistakes are my own. Guah... Had to rewrite parts of this chapter and I hope I didn't mess up too badly...

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**

6. g3 Qxg3#: Life debt

**

g3

**

White Pawn

** __

"If you believe that's how it's gonna be I'd better put you down." Tightrope - ELO

  
  
This was surreal. He was sitting in a small kitchen drinking tea with one of the infamous Weasleys. An awkward silence floated like a foul smell in the air, and the small yellow teapot was the unquestionable centre of attention. It didn't seem to mind actually. Stupid teapot, why did it have to be so… yellow. The silence was starting to get on his nerves. He didn't mind being silent all by himself, he could always entertain himself with one of his inner monologues, but now when he actually was sitting at a kitchen table with a fellow wizard (even if it was a _Weasley_) it felt rude not to say anything. Or something. What the hell did you talk about with a person who had stalked you for weeks, broke your nose, mended it again and then invited you for a cup of tea? Come to think about it, 'surreal' didn't even start to describe this situation.   
  
He had woken up in an unfamiliar flat with the redhead of his nightmares bent over him, looking worried. After some fussing over his newly healed nose and still very black eye Weasley finally managed to heal him completely and proceeded to clean up the mess that had been a perfectly decent face before the redhead had hit him. It had been nice to feel the familiar tingle of magic as the man had tried to clean his face, but it wasn't very effective.   
  
"This is going to take forever." Weasley groaned and tossed his wand aside "Do you want to grab a shower?"   
  
"Um... Sure," he had said, much to his own surprise.   
  
"This way."   
  
The bathroom smelled clean. Weasley withdrew an orange shower-curtain revealing a white bathtub standing on golden animal-paws. He had left him there with a towel and a warning not to turn the hot-water tap too much if he didn't want to be boiled. Great. Eccentric plumbing.   
  
He undressed quickly and folded every item of clothing neatly. Without clothes he felt terribly exposed. When had he last been completely naked? He didn't know. The layers of clothing had become a second hide to him. They were his suit of armour, his shield against the outer world. He started to shiver uncontrollably but got a grip on himself and climbed into the bathtub. The warm water finally allowed him to relax, and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.   
  
He watched a clot of dried blood swirl down with the water and disappear somewhere down the drain. A fit of nausea hit him and he had to steady himself against the wall. Blood, his great weakness. It was ironic really. Who had heard of a Death Eater with haemophobia? No one. And no one would ever hear of one now.   
  
He suddenly found himself staring at his black mark for the first time in years. It might have faded a little, but it hadn't disappeared like the marks of Voldemort's true children had when their master had died.   
  
Still, it would always remind him. Something stupid he had done when he was young and... No, not innocent. Foolish. He scrubbed furiously but the mark on his upper arm stayed where it was, the Muggle ink was safely buried under his skin and couldn't be removed with soap and water. He still remembered the words and wand movements to create the glamour he had intended to use in order to hide it from his mother. As things turned out he never got around to use that charm.   
  
When he had finished his shower he found a pair of jeans, and a maroon sweater waiting for him instead of the pile of shabby clothes he had left. It spooked him that someone had entered the bathroom while he was showering and stolen his clothes without him noticing. He dressed quickly. Being naked was far more embarrassing than walking around in someone else's hand-me-downs.   
  


~*~

  
  
And now he sat in a small but cosy kitchen drinking some kind of cinnamon tea. He watched Weasley drop a lump of sugar in his tea and stir until it dissolved. Another lump of sugar. Plop. Stir, stir, stir. Plop. Stir, stir, stir. Plop. That had to be disgustingly sweet by now. Weasley stopped after the fifth lump of sugar and took a sip. If he where to judge by the look on Weasley's face it _was_ disgustingly sweet. The silence was starting to get to him. Suddenly the teapot started humming a cheerful tune that made both of them jump. Weasley looked embarrassed and covered the offending piece of china with something lumpy and orange that looked extremely hand-knitted. It continued to emit muffled sounds for a while before calming down.   
  
"Where are my clothes?" he asked in an attempt to break the silence.   
  
"Hmm?" the other man looked up from his teacup.   
  
"My clothes," he asked again, "Where are they?"   
  
"I washed them for you."   
  
"Oh."   
  
"Should be dry soon."   
  
"I better go change then," he said uncertainly and twisted a loose thread from the jumper round his finger, "Where do you want me to put these?"   
  
The other man got a pained expression in his eyes and then looked away.   
  
"Keep them," he said with a forced smile, "I never wear them nowadays."   
  
More silence. The distraction that stupid teapot offered lasted longer than that.   
  
"So... Weasley." he started again, uncertain how to go on. The other man dropped his spoon with a clatter and stared at him.   
  
"How did you know my name?" the redhead asked. He _was_ slow.   
  
"I guessed." he admitted, "Wizard, redhead, and since there are quite a few of you… I had the odds on my side." He drank some of his tea, enjoying Weasley's confusion. Damn, he was good.   
  
"Oh."   
  
"I haven't the faintest idea which Weasley you are though." he admitted generously.   
  
"Don't call me Weasley," the redhead pleaded.   
  
"Or what? You'll kill me? Hit my nose again?"   
  
Weasley looked like he actually considered the options but stayed silent.   
  
"If I can't call you Weasley," he continued, "then what am I to call you. Carrots?"   
  
"My friends call me Ron," came the honest answer.   
  
He spluttered tea all over the table. Ron? Ron? Ronald fucking Weasley?   
  
"You don't look like Ron," he blurted out before realising what he'd done. He hoped that Ron the Weasel would be as dense as he had always appeared to be, but sadly the git seemed to have a bright day today.   
  
"So we did go to school together?" Weasley said, suddenly very interested.   
  
"No" he said, too quickly.   
  
"No?" the redhead said mockingly. "Then how do you know what I'm supposed to look like? Do I know you from somewhere else?" Damn him. Damn him and those piercing eyes!   
  
"Or maybe yes." he blurted "Yes we did, but not in the same year, definitely not." _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_   
  
"So..." Ron Weasley said to him "What's your name then?"   
  
_That's none of your fucking business!_ Was that bastard smirking at him?   
  
"Fine," he said, "I'll tell you, Draco Malfoy."   
  
It was his turn to knock his mug over in shock.   
  
"I know who you are," Weasley said while mopping up the flood of tea with a dry cloth.   
  
"No. You don't." he wanted to scream but it came out as a whisper, "No one knows me."   
  
"I know what you've done." Weasley said with a sad smile   
  
He laughed mirthlessly. "You can't know half of it."   
  
"I know enough. A couple of years after you disappeared I found out why."   
  
Random thoughts fluttered in his head like scared birds. His mouth was dry and his heart beat too fast. Someone ought to slow the world down; it was spinning way too fast right now.   
  
"Would you believe me if I told you I don't care about what you've done?"   
  
"No," he managed to croak.   
  
"I sometimes envy you, you know. You never had to deal with the worst years of war. Not that I wanted to be where you were, for all I know you might have been raped in prison... sorry. But..."   
  
"You're babbling again."   
  
"Yeah. I am."   
  
The conversation lost speed after that. Weasley poured him some more tea and they drank in silence. After a while they managed to break the silence, talking about neutral things. The weather. Lockhart. Other idiotic DADA teachers, but they were carefully avoiding every teacher after fourth year. They almost started to fight over that werewolf, but Weasley gave up and changed the subject. Draco even started to talk about Quidditch despite the fact that he hadn't cared about the Quidditch league in years. The pauses became longer and longer, but the silence felt better now than it did before. Draco didn't have the energy to fill every minute with meaningless jabber, the silence felt almost comfortable.   
  


~*~

  
  
Sometime during the evening the weather got worse. Angry storm clouds gathered overhead creating a premature dusk, but Draco had been too busy to notice, and when he finally did it was already late. If he were to judge by the non-existent light outside it had to be very late. He cursed himself for staying this long. He wasn't even sure where he was. For all he knew Weasley could have Apparated him to another country while he was out cold.   
  
Walking home on dark streets wasn't his idea of a fun filled Wednesday evening. His spot would probably be taken already and he didn't like the prospect of a knife-fight before bedtime. He could roam the streets until morning or try to find a nice bus-driver who would let him sleep on the bus if he paid for the ride, but none of the options felt appealing.   
  
He stood up and prepared to go. Weasley was staring down in his mug with that empty expression typical for a person who should have gone to sleep a several hours ago. He looked a bit pale.   
  
"It's late." Draco said, "I better leave now."   
  
Weasley looked up at him, "Do you have anywhere to go?"   
  
What was this? The Weasley-evening of stupid questions?   
  
"No," he said acidly, "unless you let me sleep here." He didn't know what possessed him to answer like he did instead of saying something truly nasty. If he had been in his right mind he would never have said that, must have been something in the tea. Whatever it was it must be affecting Ron the Weasel too because he didn't tell him to sod off, or punch him in the face for suggesting something like that.   
  
"I guess," stammered Ron, "I guess you could do that. You can sleep on the sofa if you want."   
  
Weasel got up and put the mugs in the sink. Draco cautiously followed him into the main room and watched as Ron transformed the sofa in the corner, apparently without the use of magic. It unfolded to a very big and comfortable looking bed. Hey, wait a minute... Draco scanned the room in search of the door to the bedchamber. It could have been the narrow door next to the bathroom, if it hadn't been for the ugly hand-painted sign with the word "closet" surrounded by painted socks and underwear that danced around slowly changing colours. Red, gold, orange, black, yellow, maroon... Disgusting. He shook his head and tried to figure out the size of Weasley's home. From what he had seen the flat seemed to consist of the hall, the bathroom, the kitchen, the main room and the unknown "closet". He scanned the room once more, but beside the sofa that now had turned into a double bed there was no other bed or mattress in sight.   
  
Ron went to the closet and came back with a second pillow and a pile of blankets and bedclothes that he put on the bed, and that was when it hit Draco. Did that git seriously think that he, Draco Malfoy, would share a bed with a Weasley? He didn't care how big the bed was, or that he would get to sleep under clean blankets, between clean sheets for the first time in many months, or that those pillows looked really comfortable, or that he was tired enough to fall asleep and never wake again...   
  
Ron must have noticed the expression on his face when he came back from the closet with a second pile of blankets.   
  
"I... Uh..." he bit his lip, "I can sleep on the floor or in the armchair if it's making you uncomfortable."   
  
It was tempting to say yes, if only to see Ron suffer on the cold floor, but something about how Weasley phrased the offer had made him seem weak. As if he couldn't cope with one night that close to another man. Person. Another person. So he just sneered, removed his sweater and socks and sat down on what from now on was "his" side of the bed.   
  
"I can deal with it if you can," he said and curled up as far to his side as possible. He closed his eyes but stayed awake. He could hear Ron go out in the kitchen, and then to the bathroom before the shifting of weight told him that another person had joined him in bed. It wasn't that bad, he had lots of air on his left side while Ron was stuck between him and the wall.   
  


~*~

  
  
He woke in the middle of the night with the claustrophobic feeling of something holding him down. After a moment of panic he realised where he was and that his bedpartner had moved in his sleep and was now lying on his side with an arm across Draco's chest. When Draco tried to free himself the arm and the warmth behind him disappeared. His pulse was racing as if he had run a marathon and he was wide-awake. It was still dark outside but a streetlight shone in through the half-drawn curtains and painted eerie patterns on the walls and ceiling. A couple of deep breaths later he had calmed down somewhat and dared to turn around to face his enemy.   
  
Ron Weasley lay on his back with the blankets tangled around his legs, arms outstretched and mouth half open, sleeping like a baby. If he ignored the different hairstyle this looked more like the Ron Weasley he had known at school. Younger, and without those eyes that had seen too much. The Ron Weasley he had known wouldn't have looked this peaceful however. He rarely saw Weasel-boy with any other expression than hate, spiteful glee or suspicion, unless he watched when Ron wasn't aware of it.   
  
Draco sighed and collected the blankets he had kicked down on the floor. A distressed sound made him turn towards Ron again. The peaceful expression was gone, he had curled up in a ball and his forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat. Weasley made that horrible sound again and purplish boils had started to appear on his arms.   
  
There wasn't any time to think; Draco knew a poisoning when he saw it. Snape and six months of NEWT potions classes had made sure of that. 

~*~

  
  


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Next chapter: Hallucinations I guess, it's a bad thing to poison the POV-character. :/   
And the end, finally. We'll meet a few old friends. 


	12. Qxg3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
**WARNING:** OotP spoilers.  
  
**A/N:**I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo, Lisa and Lynn, any remaining mistakes are my own. This is the last move in theis game. And thank you, thank you, thank you to all of you who took the time to read this. 

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~*~

  


Qxg3#

**

Black Queen

**  
  
  
  
Ron didn't want to wake up, it hurt, he wanted to sleep, but someone was shaking him violently.   
  
"What kind of potion did you take?" an unfamiliar voice yelled at him. He opened his eyes slowly, the person leaning over him was surrounded by a bright aura and he couldn't quite make out his face.   
  
"What. Kind. Of. Potion. Did. You. Take. Yesterday."   
  
Yesterday. All my troubles seemed so... no that wasn't quite right. Upon recollecting his whereabouts the past day he suddenly realised who the person must be.   
  
"Hello, Draco," he said and tried to sit up, but the sudden pain in his abdomen made him double over. "I didn't take any potions yesterday," he ground out through gritted teeth, "unless you put some in my tea."   
  
With closed eyes he could no longer see the sinister halos that surrounded everything, but he could hear Draco Malfoy curse loudly and start rummaging through the apartment. The pain was a bright red and yellow dragon that wanted to eat him alive. Fire ants ran across his arms and he tore at the burning flesh. With a click everything turned way too bright, he screamed in pain and pressed his palms to his closed eyes to protect his vulnerable eyes.   
  
"Shut the fuck up," Malfoy yelled, "I need the light."   
  
It wasn't in his head, it wasn't in his head, someone had turned the lights on, it wasn't in his head. The dragon buried its claws in his scalp and he ran away, away, far away. It was dark, as if he was imbedded in black cotton. Everything was muffled; pain, light, sound, life. Going away now. Going. Gone.   
  
_"Why the fuck hasn't he got anything useful in here?"   
  
Sounds of kitchen cupboards being opened and closed in slow-motion. Even the sound had slowed down. Something breaking ever so slowly. Footsteps. The outdrawn creak of the closet door. Thunder.   
  
"Finally."   
  
The muffled noises floated out and mixed with each other. Like music. Sing to me.   
  
"Where's that book? I know I saw it somewhere."   
  
Sing. Sing. Sing.   
  
Sing to me my darling.   
  
"There. Perfect."   
  
The rustle of paper, and then something falling to the floor with a muffled thud.   
  
"What's this? What kind of moron uses a besoar as a paperweight? Lucky son of a bitch."   
  
A fire was crackling, the sound alone made him feel warm and cozy. Mum? Sounds of home. She had come back to take him with her. He could feel her smile and hear her skin. Mum used to sing to him when he was little.   
  
"Weasley, WEASLEY!" Someone was in trouble, but he didn't care. Mum used to yell too, but she wasn't yelling now. They must be yelling at his brothers. They could yell all they wanted now when Fred and George had left. They didn't care. He couldn't care less. Mum had come for him.   
  
"Wake up before I fucking kill you! Weasley! Oh for fucks sake. RON!"_   
  
The pain was back. Someone was shaking him and slapping him. Someone had brought him back from that warm cosy place. Bastard. He groaned and screwed his eyes shut. Strong arms forced him into an upright position.   
  
"That's it, come back here, I've got something for you."   
  
The gentleness in the voice surprised him, something was wrong. He forced his eyes to open a little. A worried face, a glass near his face.   
  
"Drink this, all of it." As the cool glass touched his lower lip he opened his mouth and drank. The liquid was thick and warm and he had difficulty swallowing. An arm supported him and helped him sit upright. Someone tilted the glass as Ron drank. He coughed but the pain and dizziness melted away.   
  
"Hello, Draco," he said as soon as he speak again. The other man snorted and put the glass on a shelf in the bookshelf. Ron had a better look around, his flat was much messier than usual.   
  
The potions travel-kit he had got last Christmas stood on his desk surrounded by shredded herbs and other potions ingredients. Ginny had given it to him so that he would be able to brew his own Pepper Up Potion if he got a cold. He hadn't pointed out to her that he couldn't very well go to work with fuming ears, and the potions kit had ended up in the closet. It was a nice thought, and now it finally seemed to have come to use. Draco tapped impatiently at the glass catching Ron's attention again.   
  
"What...?"   
  
"You must have ingested some kind of poison," Draco said, "that much is obvious."   
  
"Yes, but..."   
  
"I found these lying around, and I think I managed to figure out what type of potion it was," He held the two stuck-together books between his thumb and forefinger, looking disgusted. "Not the exact kind, of course. I gave you a general antidote for the class of poisons, but you'll need something more specific soon to recover completely."   
  
Ron listened silently as the information sunk in. He still felt light-headed but he suddenly got an idea.   
  
"Could you give me the pile of parchments in the wicker-basket on the desk?"   
  
Draco gave him a questioning look, but fetched the basket. A few parchments seemed to have been scattered in the potions making-process but Draco collected all of them from the floor before handing over the basket. Ron started to sort the parchments in different piles. He asked for his quill and started underlining names that reoccurred on his lists. He wrote down every purchase in the teashop that concerned potion supplies or other magical activity. Mrs. Murphy kept an impressive stock of both magical and non-magical herbs and ingredients available for those who knew what to ask for. When someone bought large amounts of something or asked for unusual or banned goods he immediately reported it to his Ministry contact. He had made it a habit to record ordinary purchases too and he sent in lists of the Magic people frequenting the shop every other month or when the list became long enough.   
  
"Can you give me a blank parchment?" he asked.   
  
"No."   
  
He looked up from his work.   
  
"Say what?"   
  
"I used all of it to make the fire." Draco looked... No, not embarrassed, that emotion didn't seem to be available to the man, but if he had had the ability he might have looked like that.   
  
"You burned my parchment?" Ron immediately regretted yelling as black dots started to dance in front of his eyes.   
  
"Only the blank parchments," Draco said stubbornly, "I had to use some of your plants for the potion too."   
  
"You killed my potted plants?!"   
  
"Exitus acta probat."   
  
"Don't speak Latin to a dying man."   
  
"The result validates the deeds, Weasley," Draco snarled. "Those potted plants saved your life."   
  
"Fine," Ron murmured and started scribbling on the sheets. Draco had seated himself in Ron's armchair and was watching him intently.   
  
"What can you make with armadillo bile, black beetle eyes, snake tongues..." Ron didn't even have to finish reading his list.   
  
"Sounds like a Wit-Sharpening Potion."   
  
"Right..." he tried another patron's shopping list, which turned out to be the ingredients to Pepper-Up Potion and some herbs common in other harmless potions. Ron suddenly wished he had opened a potions book at least once since he finished school. He took a deep breath and continued to read, ignoring the buzzing sound in his head. As the stack of possible suspects grew smaller Ron explained briefly what he was trying to do and Draco caught up quickly, checking up the ingredients in the potions book as Ron read.   
  


~*~

  
  
"The Vindicta potion." Draco said grimly, "sweet as revenge and worse than death if you happen to survive. You need a real antidote and I can't produce that from your potted plants."   
  
Ron felt all the blood drain from his face. With Draco's reluctant help he managed to walk towards the kitchen and the phone. The whole flat smelt like something burning and the stench grew stronger as they approached the kitchen door. He plopped down on a chair and surveyed the mess. Burnt out matches was strewn across the floor, there had definitely been a fire in the sink, but someone, probably Draco, had put it out.   
  
"Why..?"   
  
"I needed charcoal for the potion."   
  
That might explain the missed leg on the wooden stool his nightshade used to stand on. Poor plant, what a terrible way to end – diced and sliced in a cauldron.   
  
"Why did you start a fire," he asked, "couldn't you have used..." he paused.   
  
"What?" Draco snarled. _What indeed._ "Magic?"   
  
"You could have borrowed..." he mumbled half-heartedly.   
  
"Your wand?" Draco spat, "Who do you think I am? I might have done terrible things in my past but I have never, ever touched another wizard's wand without his consent, and I would NEVER use another wizard's wand. Now try to get some help before you start to mould, Weasley."   
  
Ron blushed and reached for the phone. Hermione owned a phone to keep in touch with her parents, her home was also fitted with a fireplace, so she would be able to contact St. Mungos. Luckily she was at home and she didn't seem _that_ annoyed to be disturbed at this unholy hour - he checked the clock in the kitchen - 4 AM.   
  
He apologised for waking her, didn't really explain the situation since he didn't want to upset her more than necessary and asked her to notify St. Mungo's. It would have been much simpler if it hadn't been Hermione he was talking to. Why couldn't she simply co-operate for once?   
  
"Please, Hermione, I need you to use your fireplace and call St. Mungo's." Ron said for the fourth time. He looked up at the other man with a tired and apologetic half-smile; a muscle in the side of Draco's face was twisting. It would have been amusing if Ron hadn't got a monster headache, Hermione and possibly his own life to worry about.   
  
"Yes I know that, Hermione, but can you please just..." the receiver was snatched from his hand, "...make the call?"   
  
"GRANGER!" Draco shouted before continuing to speak in a silky but a bit too loud voice, "Stop jabbering and get off your lazy arse. Your friend Ron is dying as you speak. NOW GET A MOVE ON!"   
  
He hung up violently, but without destroying the phone.   
  
"Didn't know you knew how to handle delicate Muggle equipment."   
  
"I took Muggle Studies for a whole year," Draco said with a wry smile, "Imagine that."   
  
"Why would you do that?" Ron said, "I would imagine you being scared to catch Muggle-cooties if you where in the same room for too long."   
  
"You know," Draco said and smiled weakly, "Know thy enemy and all that…"   
  
"Really," Ron said doubtfully. He would have grinned but his head felt like it would split in half if he moved too much. "And the real reason?"   
  
"No Mudbloods."   
  
He could have strangled the prick; he _would_ have strangled him if he hadn't fallen over. Ow!   
  
"Calm down," Draco said after helping him to sit down on his chair again, "I chose Muggle Studies because someone else did, and luckily I learned a thing or two during that year anyway."   
  
"Who?"   
  
Draco only shook his head and smiled sadly.   
  
"Anytime."   
  
Not that tactful, Ron mused, but he had to admit it was effective. It couldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes before his flat was swarming with Healers and, surprisingly, Aurors. He was strapped down on a floating stretcher and examined by professional Healers. The roof seemed so high above, but he couldn't float away just yet. Draco was surrounded by a few Aurors and one or two Healers. He looked confident and totally in control and if Ron where to judge by the pieces of conversation he heard he was explaining all about the poisoning and the antidote. They started to carry him out of the kitchen but stopped when he grabbed the back of Draco's T-shirt and refused to let go.   
  
"He might sound impressive," he wheezed to the people surrounding Draco, "but you better watch it, he can be a real bastard."   
  
Draco glared but Ron didn't care, he tugged at the shirt. "Don't forget to send those owls."   
  
Draco nodded and made a move as if to follow the stretcher downstairs but an Auror held him back.   
  
The last thing he remembered saying was. "If you hurt him, I'll bloody kill you."   
  


~*~

  
  
It wasn't that bad being stranded at St. Mungo's for a week. He got to see his family for once, and he enjoyed their company even when they asked questions he didn't know how to answer. Hermione came, cried, demanded answers and then left when the visiting hours were over. When she returned the next day she looked like a crooked old woman under the weight of her book bag. She apparently hadn't slept much, but between themselves and a helpful Healer they managed to sort out everything about the Vindicta potion. She sat in the visitor chair at his bedside with a thick volume in her lap.   
  
"It's very powerful," Hermione said in a low voice, "and even if the victim survive it often drains the magic from a magic person. It doesn't affect Squibs unless they have some dormant magic and they rarely affect Muggles." She took a deep breath.   
  
"So you'd become a Squib if you survived?" Ron asked. She nodded and searched for something in an open book.   
  
"It's a bit complicated, I don't know if you want to read for yourself."   
  
He shook his head. "Summarise it for me."   
  
"Right," she read half a paragraph, sighed and put down the book again. "I've read it a few times already, but I don't know if I understand the underlying mechanisms. As far as I understand the potion uses the wizard's magic as fuel. A more powerful wizard is less likely to survive since a longer time passes before the source of fuel burns out."   
  
"I would have become a Squib?" he asked.   
  
"If you survived," she added helpfully.   
  
"So that's why he told me it was worse than death," he mused. Hermione narrowed her eyes.   
  
"Who?"   
  
Ron groaned and covered his face with his hands, he could have lied, but not to Hermione. "Hermione, sit down."   
  
"I _am_ sitting down," she said pointedly, "I have been sitting down for approximately an hour, what on earth is the matter with you?"   
  
He sat up very straight and looked her square in the eyes.   
  
"I seem to owe Draco Malfoy a life-debt."   
  


~*~

  
  
After the final examination a girl in red Auror-trainee robes shooed away all the Healers and secured the doors and windows. Ron was a bit surprised, the Healers had said he was as healthy as ever.   
  
"Your boss will be here any minute now," she said before she left.   
  
He had never actually met his boss and his first impression of her was a pointed yellow hat trimmed with feathers. It took a moment to take in the face under that hat.   
  
"Ron," she said with a smile, "I'm glad you're feeling better."   
  
"Luna..." he said slowly. "Luna Lovegood. You don't strike me as the type to be working for the Ministry."   
  
She grinned and handed him a card that looked professional but still had a "do it yourself"-feeling.   
  


_Lovegood's Ltd.   
  
Conspiracy theories, unwanted information and more. _

  
  
"I thought I worked for the ministry." Ron said slowly.   
  
"Oh, the Ministry pays for my services," Luna said and smiled, "At least they will do after this." She sniffed, "They never believed my theories, but look at this. A dark wizard running rampant in the Muggle world, killing people. And we couldn't have stopped him without you!" She patted his arm and beamed at him.   
  
Ron blushed.   
  
"I take it you got my owls after all."   
  
"No, no," she said, "personal delivery. The Aurors wouldn't leave his side, but they caught on pretty quickly. They're probably very happy for that routine call; I've heard they're going to get promoted for Rosier's arrest."   
  
Luna spread out a number of parchments on top of the bed. Ron recognised the reports he had asked Draco to send.   
  
"Look at this," she said, "Rosier bought different potion supplies approximately once a month."   
  
"Rosier, who?"   
  
"The wizard who poisoned you, that was his real name."   
  
"Oh."   
  
"The Aurors went to the café you mentioned and asked for an employee named Bill. A man called Will worked there, but he hadn't arrived to work that day. They managed to find out where he lived and found a basement fitted with everything you need for potions making."   
  
Ron didn't know what to say.   
  
"They also found Rosier in very much discomfort. He later confessed that he had ingested the potion in the belief that it only would harm Muggles."   
  
"When in fact Muggles where the only ones who weren't affected?"   
  
"Precisely." Luna smiled, "Well done!"   
  
Praise was always nice, but it all boiled down to being at the right place at the right time, and picking the wrong dish for lunch.   
  
"You're good," Luna continued. "I think I have to give you a raise, and with some Ministry money behind us we can get you an assistant."   
  
He blinked. An assistant. That sounded really good, only important persons had assistants...   
  
But...   
  
"So no one else was harmed?"   
  
"Not in this attack, no," Luna said, "A girl who used to be able to foresee her nearest future won't be able to use that skill anymore. She thinks she had a fever, but the small amount of magic in her is gone."   
  
"That's sad." Ron said, immensely relieved that no one was badly hurt.   
  
"Unfortunately they saved Rosier in time to preserve some of his magic," she said, "he will be punished of course, one of his other attempt to poison Muggles probably caused a small child's death."   
  
Ron didn't know what to do with this new piece of information. It was horrible.   
  
"You should go home now," Luna said, "Make sure not to use your magic more than necessarily. I'll keep in touch."   
  
He was surprised to find a Ministry car waiting for him outside the hospital.   
  


~*~

  
  
Draco sat on the messy bed reading the potions textbook, as if Ron had simply doing an errand and been gone a few hours – not more than a week.   
  
"What took you so long?" he asked and crossed his arms.   
  
"Missed me already?" Ron asked with a tired smile. He was surprised to see the other man, but it wasn't an entirely unpleasant surprise.   
  
Draco harrumphed and disappeared through the kitchen door. When Ron began to follow he turned and yelled. "Sit." Draco pointed at the armchair and Ron was too surprised to disobey.   
  
Draco returned almost instantly carrying a bowl of soup. "The so called cauldrons you use for food are worthless," he complained, "I've melted one of them and you should thank me for getting rid of that rubbish. Eat."   
  
Ron looked suspiciously at the soup.   
  
"Oh, come on," Draco said, "it's ordinary chicken soup, perfectly safe. I'm not gonna poison you and go through all that trouble with antidotes again."   
  
Ron took the bowl; the soup was actually edible, almost delicious.   
  
"Who taught you to cook?"   
  
"Snape."   
  
"You're joking, right?"   
  
"No"   
  
He then went on to explain how much cooking and potions resembled each other. Ron stopped listening after a few minutes. Nodding and hmming now and then, he kept on eating and pretended to be interested; he had been forced to develop this technique during Hermione's many rants. She tended to become upset if she found out he wasn't listening. "You could have told me you weren't interested," she had said once before stomping away, leaving him sitting there as the Bad Guy. Completely lost in thought he didn't pay much attention at what he was eating until he choked on something. After a lot of coughing, spluttering and back thumping he managed to spit out the offending object in his hand.   
  
"You told me this was safe," he yelled, but when he looked down at the thing in his hand he fell silent. His Knut. It was wet with soup but shinier than he remembered it, as if it was newly polished.   
  
"You wanted it back." Draco said shortly and disappeared into the kitchen.   
  
He wiped the tiny piece of bronze against his robes to get rid of the soup it was covered in and studied it carefully. It was the same Knut, he was sure of that.   
  
"Checkmate," he said silently as he turned the Knut between his fingers. Game over – but he wasn't sure who, if any of them, had won.   
  


~ The End ~

  
  
  


* * *

The end. No sequel. Just so you know :) I hope you had at least half as fun as I had... Thanks for reading!  
Let me know if you want the whole fic as a word-doc with better formatting than this. 


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